第1部--簡-奧斯汀的《理智與情感》有聲讀物 (第01-14章) (Part 1 - Sense and Sensibility Audiobook by Jane Austen (Chs 01-14))

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SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 1
The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.
Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their
property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to
engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance.
The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and
who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his
sister.
But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration
in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the
family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood,
the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to
bequeath it.
In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman's days
were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased.
The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which
proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every
degree of solid comfort which his age could
receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence.
By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three
daughters.
The son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of
his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of
age.
By his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his
wealth.
To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not so really important
as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them
from their father's inheriting that property, could be but small.
Their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own
disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to
her child, and he had only a life-interest in it.
The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as
much disappointment as pleasure.
He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his
nephew;--but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the
bequest.
Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for
himself or his son;--but to his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old,
it was secured, in such a way, as to leave
to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most
needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable
woods.
The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with
his father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle,
by such attractions as are by no means
unusual in children of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest
desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to
outweigh all the value of all the attention
which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters.
He meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three
girls, he left them a thousand pounds a- piece.
Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful
and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living
economically, lay by a considerable sum
from the produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate
improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in
coming, was his only one twelvemonth.
He survived his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late
legacies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters.
His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood
recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the
interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.
Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he
was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to
do every thing in his power to make them comfortable.
His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then
leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them.
He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted and rather
selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he
conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties.
Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable
than he was:--he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when
he married, and very fond of his wife.
But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself;--more narrow-minded
and selfish.
When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the
fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece.
He then really thought himself equal to it.
The prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the
remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable
of generosity.-- "Yes, he would give them
three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome!
It would be enough to make them completely easy.
Three thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum with little
inconvenience."-- He thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and
he did not repent.
No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending
any notice of her intention to her mother- in-law, arrived with her child and their
attendants.
No one could dispute her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of
his father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to
a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with
only common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;--but in HER mind there was a
sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by
whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of immovable disgust.
Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband's family;
but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of shewing them with how little
attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it.
So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did
she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she
would have quitted the house for ever, had
not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of
going, and her own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to
stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their brother.
Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of
understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen,
to be the counsellor of her mother, and
enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness
of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence.
She had an excellent heart;--her disposition was affectionate, and her
feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her
mother had yet to learn; and which one of
her sisters had resolved never to be taught.
Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.
She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could
have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting: she
was everything but prudent.
The resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great.
Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood
it was valued and cherished.
They encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction.
The agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was
sought for, was created again and again.
They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in
every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation
in future.
Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert
herself.
She could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival,
and treat her with proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar
exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.
Margaret, the other sister, was a good- humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had
already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without having much of her sense,
she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal
her sisters at a more advanced period of life.
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 2
Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her mother and
sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.
As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband
with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife,
and their child.
He really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their
home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till
she could accommodate herself with a house
in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted.
A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight, was exactly
what suited her mind.
In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in
a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself.
But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond
consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.
Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his
sisters.
To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would be
impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree.
She begged him to think again on the subject.
How could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so
large a sum?
And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him only by
half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity
to so large an amount.
It was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the
children of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their
poor little Harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters?
"It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I should assist
his widow and daughters."
"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he was light-
headed at the time.
Had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging
you to give away half your fortune from your own child."
"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only requested me,
in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it
was in his power to do.
Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself.
He could hardly suppose I should neglect them.
But as he required the promise, I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so
at the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must
be performed.
Something must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new
home."
"Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT something need not be three
thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when the money
is once parted with, it never can return.
Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever.
If, indeed, it could be restored to our poor little boy--"
"Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make great difference.
The time may come when Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with.
If he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very convenient
addition." "To be sure it would."
"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one
half.--Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!"
"Oh! beyond anything great!
What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if REALLY his
sisters! And as it is--only half blood!--But you
have such a generous spirit!"
"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied.
"One had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little.
No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can
hardly expect more."
"There is no knowing what THEY may expect," said the lady, "but we are not to think of
their expectations: the question is, what you can afford to do."
"Certainly--and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece.
As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand
pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable fortune for any young woman."
"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all.
They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them.
If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live
very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds."
"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the whole, it would
not be more advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than
for them--something of the annuity kind I
mean.--My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.
A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable."
His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan.
"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at
once.
But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken
in." "Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life
cannot be worth half that purchase."
"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is an
annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty.
An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there
is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what you are doing.
I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with
the payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is
amazing how disagreeable she found it.
Twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of
getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it
turned out to be no such thing.
My mother was quite sick of it.
Her income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the
more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been
entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever.
It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin
myself down to the payment of one for all the world."
"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have those kind
of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your mother justly says,
is NOT one's own.
To be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no
means desirable: it takes away one's independence."
"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it.
They think themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises
no gratitude at all.
If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entirely.
I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly.
It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from
our own expenses."
"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity
in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater
assistance than a yearly allowance, because
they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger
income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year.
It will certainly be much the best way.
A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed
for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father."
"To be sure it will.
Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea
of your giving them any money at all.
The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might be reasonably
expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house
for them, helping them to move their
things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are
in season.
I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange
and unreasonable if he did.
Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law
and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the
thousand pounds belonging to each of the
girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay
their mother for their board out of it.
Altogether, they will have five hundred a- year amongst them, and what on earth can
four women want for more than that?--They will live so cheap!
Their housekeeping will be nothing at all.
They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no
company, and can have no expenses of any kind!
Only conceive how comfortable they will be!
Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will
spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of
it.
They will be much more able to give YOU something."
"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right.
My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say.
I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts
of assistance and kindness to them as you have described.
When my mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to
accommodate her as far as I can. Some little present of furniture too may be
acceptable then."
"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, ONE thing must be
considered.
When your father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill
was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother.
Her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes
it." "That is a material consideration
undoubtedly.
A valuable legacy indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a
very pleasant addition to our own stock here."
"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this
house.
A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place THEY can ever afford to live
in. But, however, so it is.
Your father thought only of THEM.
And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention
to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost
everything in the world to THEM."
This argument was irresistible.
It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finally
resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to
do more for the widow and children of his
father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out.
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 3
Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any disinclination to move
when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which
it produced for a while; for when her
spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than
that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient
to be gone, and indefatigable in her
inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to remove far
from that beloved spot was impossible.
But she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and
ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected
several houses as too large for their
income, which her mother would have approved.
Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part
of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections.
She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and
she thought of it for her daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself
she was persuaded that a much smaller
provision than 7000L would support her in affluence.
For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she
reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of
generosity.
His attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare
was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his
intentions.
The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-
in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which
half a year's residence in her family
afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal
affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it impossible
to have lived together so long, had not a
particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the
opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.
This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of
Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to
their acquaintance soon after his sister's
establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there.
Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for
Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have
repressed it from motives of prudence, for,
except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother.
But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration.
It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and
that Elinor returned the partiality.
It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune should keep any
couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that
Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged
by every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of
person or address.
He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing.
He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was
overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.
His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement.
But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his
mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished--as--they hardly knew what.
They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other.
His mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into
parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day.
Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him
driving a barouche.
But Edward had no turn for great men or barouches.
All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life.
Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more promising.
Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of Mrs.
Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her
careless of surrounding objects.
She saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it.
He did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.
She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which Elinor
chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister.
It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother.
"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.
It implies everything amiable.
I love him already." "I think you will like him," said Elinor,
"when you know more of him." "Like him!" replied her mother with a
smile.
"I feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love."
"You may esteem him." "I have never yet known what it was to
separate esteem and love."
Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him.
Her manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve.
She speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor
perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even
that quietness of manner, which militated
against all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no
longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper
affectionate.
No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she
considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their
marriage as rapidly approaching.
"In a few months, my dear Marianne." said she, "Elinor will, in all probability be
settled for life. We shall miss her; but SHE will be happy."
"Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?"
"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few miles of each
other, and shall meet every day of our lives.
You will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother.
I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward's heart.
But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your sister's choice?"
"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise.
Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly.
But yet--he is not the kind of young man-- there is something wanting--his figure is
not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could
seriously attach my sister.
His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and
intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mama, he
has no real taste.
Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very
much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth.
It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in
fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a
connoisseur.
To satisfy me, those characters must be united.
I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my
own.
He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us
both.
Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last
night! I felt for my sister most severely.
Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it.
I could hardly keep my seat.
To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild,
pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!"-- "He would
certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose.
I thought so at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper."
"Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow for difference
of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore
she may overlook it, and be happy with him.
But it would have broke MY heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little
sensibility.
Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see
a man whom I can really love. I require so much!
He must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his
goodness with every possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not
seventeen.
It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness.
Why should you be less fortunate than your mother?
In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!"
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 4
"What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for
drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor,
"why should you think so?
He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the
performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural
taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it.
Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well.
He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always
unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and
simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right."
Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of
approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other
people, was very far from that rapturous
delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste.
Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that
blind partiality to Edward which produced it.
"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general
taste.
Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly
cordial, and if THAT were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."
Marianne hardly knew what to say.
She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what
she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied:
"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your
sense of his merits.
I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his
mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the
world of his goodness and sense.
I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable."
"I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be
dissatisfied with such commendation as that.
I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."
Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.
"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt,
who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation.
The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that
shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his
solid worth.
But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar
circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself.
He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly
engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother.
I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his
opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to
pronounce that his mind is well-informed,
enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just
and correct, and his taste delicate and pure.
His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and
person.
At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be
called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the
general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived.
At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least,
almost so.
What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome,
Elinor, if I do not now.
When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his
face, than I now do in his heart."
Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed
into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her
opinion.
She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to
make Marianne's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her.
She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the
next--that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.
She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister.
"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him--that I greatly
esteem, that I like him."
Marianne here burst forth with indignation- -
"Esteem him! Like him!
Cold-hearted Elinor!
Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise.
Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment."
Elinor could not help laughing.
"Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in
so quiet a way, of my own feelings.
Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be
such as his merit, and the suspicion--the hope of his affection for me may warrant,
without imprudence or folly.
But farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for
me.
There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are
fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my
own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is.
In my heart I feel little--scarcely any doubt of his preference.
But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination.
He is very far from being independent.
What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny's occasional mention of her
conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am
very much mistaken if Edward is not himself
aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a
woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank."
Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself
had outstripped the truth. "And you really are not engaged to him!"
said she.
"Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this
delay.
I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of improving
that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably
necessary to your future felicity.
Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself,
how delightful it would be!" Elinor had given her real opinion to her
sister.
She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne
had believed it.
There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote
indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising.
A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than
inquietude.
It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended
him.
A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the
indulgence of his affection.
She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at
present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without
strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement.
With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the
subject.
She was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother
and sister still considered as certain.
Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard;
and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than
friendship.
But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his
sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to
make her uncivil.
She took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the
occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.
Ferrars's resolution that both her sons
should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to
DRAW HIM IN; that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor
endeavor to be calm.
She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room,
resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a
removal, her beloved Elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.
In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which
contained a proposal particularly well timed.
It was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her
own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire.
The letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly
accommodation.
He understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now
offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done
to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her.
He earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to
come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from whence she
might judge, herself, whether Barton
Cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made
comfortable to her.
He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter was
written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin; more
especially at a moment when she was
suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections.
She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry.
Her resolution was formed as she read.
The situation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which,
but a few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every
possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation.
To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire;
it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's
guest; and to remove for ever from that
beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was
its mistress.
She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her
acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her
daughters, that she might be secure of
their approbation before her answer were sent.
Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance
from Norland, than immediately amongst their present acquaintance.
On THAT head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother's intention of
removing into Devonshire.
The house, too, as described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so
uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either point; and,
therefore, though it was not a plan which
brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland
beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending a letter
of acquiescence.
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 5
No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself in the
pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with a
house, and should incommode them no longer
than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it.
They heard her with surprise.
Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be
settled far from Norland.
She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.--Edward
turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and
concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, "Devonshire!
Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence!
And to what part of it?"
She explained the situation. It was within four miles northward of
Exeter. "It is but a cottage," she continued, "but
I hope to see many of my friends in it.
A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling
so far to see me, I am sure I will find none in accommodating them."
She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood to visit her
at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater affection.
Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on
remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced the
smallest effect on her in that point to which it principally tended.
To separate Edward and Elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she
wished to show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how
totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.
Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry he was that she
had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to prevent his being of any
service to her in removing her furniture.
He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he
had limited the performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangement
rendered impracticable.-- The furniture was all sent around by water.
It chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome
pianoforte of Marianne's.
Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling it
hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with their
own, she should have any handsome article of furniture.
Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished, and
she might have immediate possession.
No difficulty arose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the
disposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she
set off for the west; and this, as she was
exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested her, was soon
done.--The horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his
death, and an opportunity now offering of
disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of
her eldest daughter.
For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would
have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed.
HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man,
with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their
establishment at Norland.
The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire, to prepare the
house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs.
Dashwood, she preferred going directly to
the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she relied so undoubtingly on Sir
John's description of the house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she
entered it as her own.
Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by the evident
satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction
which was but feebly attempted to be
concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.
Now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular
propriety be fulfilled.
Since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his
house might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment.
But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be
convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no
farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland.
He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the
perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world was
beyond calculation exposed to, that he
seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of
giving money away.
In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's first letter
to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs.
Dashwood and her daughters to begin their journey.
Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved.
"Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the
last evening of their being there; "when shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to
feel a home elsewhere!--Oh! happy house,
could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I
may view you no more!--And you, ye well- known trees!--but you will continue the
same.--No leaf will decay because we are
removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe you no longer!--No;
you will continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion,
and insensible of any change in those who
walk under your shade!--But who will remain to enjoy you?"
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 6
The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition
to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant.
But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a
country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton
Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness.
It was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture.
After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house.
A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate
admitted them into it.
As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a
cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window
shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles.
A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind.
On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond
them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the
rest of the house.
It had not been built many years and was in good repair.
In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears which
recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away.
They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the
sake of the others resolved to appear happy.
It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place
under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which
was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation.
The situation of the house was good.
High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of
which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody.
The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view
from the cottage windows.
The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and
reached into the country beyond.
The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction;
under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the
steepest of them.
With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole well
satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter
indispensable, yet to add and improve was a
delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was
wanted of greater elegance to the apartments.
"As for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but
we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too
late in the year for improvements.
Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think
about building.
These parlors are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see
often collected here; and I have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one
of them with perhaps a part of the other,
and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing
room which may be easily added, and a bed- chamber and garret above, will make it a
very snug little cottage.
I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must not expect every thing; though
I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them.
I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan
our improvements accordingly."
In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the savings
of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they
were wise enough to be contented with the
house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and
endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to form themselves a
home.
Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings
were affixed to the walls of their sitting room.
In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next
day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to
offer them every accommodation from his own
house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient.
Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty.
He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to
remember him.
His countenance was thoroughly good- humoured; and his manners were as friendly
as the style of his letter.
Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an
object of real solicitude to him.
He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his
family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they
were better settled at home, that, though
his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could
not give offence.
His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large
basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed
before the end of the day by a present of game.
He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for
them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper
every day.
Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of
waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no
inconvenience; and as this message was
answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the
next day.
They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at
Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes.
Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome,
her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful.
Her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted.
But they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her
visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing
that, though perfectly well-bred, she was
reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place
inquiry or remark.
Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and Lady
Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a
fine little boy about six years old, by
which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of
extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him
questions which his mother answered for
him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her
ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise
enough at home.
On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for
discourse.
In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like
his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of
course every body differed, and every body
was astonished at the opinion of the others.
An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the rest of the
children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing their promise of
dining at the park the next day.
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 7
Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage.
The ladies had passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from
their view at home by the projection of a hill.
The house was large and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal
hospitality and elegance.
The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter for that of his
lady.
They were scarcely ever without some friends staying with them in the house, and
they kept more company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood.
It was necessary to the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and
outward behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent and
taste which confined their employments,
unconnected with such as society produced, within a very narrow compass.
Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother.
He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and these were their only
resources.
Lady Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year
round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence only half the
time.
Continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of
nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to
the good breeding of his wife.
Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her
domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any
of their parties.
But Sir John's satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting
about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the
better was he pleased.
He was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was
for ever forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his
private balls were numerous enough for any
young lady who was not suffering under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.
The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in
every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his
cottage at Barton.
The Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty, and unaffected.
It was enough to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty
girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her person.
The friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose
situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate.
In showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a
good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage, he had all the
satisfaction of a sportsman; for a
sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not
often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his
own manor.
Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by Sir John, who
welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity; and as he attended
them to the drawing room repeated to the
young ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day before,
at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them.
They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a particular friend
who was staying at the park, but who was neither very young nor very gay.
He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure
them it should never happen so again.
He had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition
to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements.
Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton within the last hour, and as she
was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so
very dull as they might imagine.
The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two
entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more.
Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, fat, elderly woman,
who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather vulgar.
She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner was over had said many witty
things on the subject of lovers and husbands; hoped they had not left their
hearts behind them in Sussex, and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not.
Marianne was vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor to
see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave Elinor far more pain
than could arise from such common-place raillery as Mrs. Jennings's.
Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of
manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be his wife, or Mrs.
Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother.
He was silent and grave.
His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his being in the opinion of
Marianne and Margaret an absolute old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of
five and thirty; but though his face was
not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was particularly
gentlemanlike.
There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as companions to the
Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton was so particularly repulsive,
that in comparison of it the gravity of
Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his mother-in-law was
interesting.
Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four
noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to
every kind of discourse except what related to themselves.
In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was invited to play.
The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be charmed, and Marianne, who
sang very well, at their request went through the chief of the songs which Lady
Middleton had brought into the family on
her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in the same position on the
pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although by
her mother's account, she had played
extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.
Marianne's performance was highly applauded.
Sir John was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his
conversation with the others while every song lasted.
Lady Middleton frequently called him to order, wondered how any one's attention
could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular
song which Marianne had just finished.
Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures.
He paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him
on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless
want of taste.
His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight which alone
could sympathize with her own, was estimable when contrasted against the
horrible insensibility of the others; and
she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have
outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment.
She was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced state
of life which humanity required.
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 8
Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure.
She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married,
and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world.
In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability
reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young
people of her acquaintance.
She was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the
advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations
of her power over such a young man; and
this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to
pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood.
She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together,
from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was
returned by the Middletons' dining at the
cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.
It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it.
It would be an excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome.
Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since
her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always
anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.
The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied
her with endless jokes against them both.
At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne.
To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly
indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object
was understood, she hardly knew whether
most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as
an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn
condition as an old bachelor.
Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so
exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to
clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age.
"But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may
not think it intentionally ill-natured.
Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be
MY father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long
outlived every sensation of the kind.
It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if
age and infirmity will not protect him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call
Colonel Brandon infirm?
I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my
mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!"
"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest
infirmity of declining life?"
"My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in
continual terror of MY decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been
extended to the advanced age of forty."
"Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is
not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of
nature.
He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with
matrimony."
"Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to
do with matrimony together.
But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and
twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection
to his marrying HER."
"A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can
never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or
her fortune small, I can suppose that she
might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the
provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore
there would be nothing unsuitable.
It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied.
In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing.
To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be
benefited at the expense of the other."
"It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of
seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love,
to make him a desirable companion to her.
But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant
confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a
very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders."
"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat
is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment
that can afflict the old and the feeble."
"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much.
Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek,
hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?"
Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an
alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you.
I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well.
We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come.
Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay.
What else can detain him at Norland?"
"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood.
"I had none.
On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in
recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting
my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton.
Does Elinor expect him already?" "I have never mentioned it to her, but of
course she must."
"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a
new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry
for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time."
"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it!
But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable!
How cold, how composed were their last adieus!
How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together!
In Edward's farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was
the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both.
Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each
time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room.
And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did.
Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy?
When does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 9
The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves.
The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become
familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half its charms were
engaged in again with far greater enjoyment
than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their father.
Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who
was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his
amazement on finding them always employed.
Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in spite of Sir
John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated
assurances of his carriage being always at
their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the wish of
society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit any family
beyond the distance of a walk.
There were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were
attainable.
About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of
Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in
one of their earliest walks, discovered an
ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little of Norland,
interested their imagination and made them wish to be better acquainted with it.
But they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good
character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from
home.
The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks.
The high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek
the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the
dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their
superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one
memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a
showery sky, and unable longer to bear the
confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned.
The weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their
book, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the day would be lastingly fair, and
that every threatening cloud would be drawn
off from their hills; and the two girls set off together.
They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of
blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the animating gales of a high south-
westerly wind, they pitied the fears which
had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such delightful sensations.
"Is there a felicity in the world," said Marianne, "superior to this?--Margaret, we
will walk here at least two hours."
Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with
laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united
over their heads, and a driving rain set
full in their face.-- Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though
unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house.
One consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave
more than usual propriety; it was that of running with all possible speed down the
steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate.
They set off.
Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the
ground; and Margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily
hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety.
A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up
the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her accident happened.
He put down his gun and ran to her assistance.
She had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and
she was scarcely able to stand.
The gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what
her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and
carried her down the hill.
Then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he
bore her directly into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not
his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.
Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of
both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which
equally sprung from his appearance, he
apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so
graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional
charms from his voice and expression.
Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood
would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence
of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an
interest to the action which came home to her feelings.
She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always
attended her, invited him to be seated.
But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet.
Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged.
His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was at Allenham, from
whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after
Miss Dashwood.
The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more
interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.
His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of
general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne received
particular spirit from his exterior
attractions.-- Marianne herself had seen less of his Mama the rest, for the
confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the
power of regarding him after their entering the house.
But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with
an energy which always adorned her praise.
His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a
favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous
formality, there was a rapidity of thought
which particularly recommended the action to her.
Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting.
His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found
out that of all manly dresses a shooting- jacket was the most becoming.
Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained
ankle was disregarded.
Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning
allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident being related to him,
he was eagerly asked whether he knew any
gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.
"Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is HE in the country?
That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on
Thursday." "You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood.
"Know him! to be sure I do.
Why, he is down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?"
"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you.
A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England."
"And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly.
"But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance?
What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?"
Sir John was rather puzzled.
"Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all THAT.
But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch
of a pointer I ever saw.
Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as
to the colour of Mr. Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of
his mind.
"But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from?
Has he a house at Allenham?"
On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that
Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only
while he was visiting the old lady at
Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit;
adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he
has a pretty little estate of his own in
Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister,
in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all
the men to herself.
Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care."
"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr.
Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of MY daughters towards
what you call CATCHING him.
It is not an employment to which they have been brought up.
Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich.
I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man,
and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible."
"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John.
"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o'clock
till four, without once sitting down."
"Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with
spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride
to covert."
"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be.
Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave
him no sense of fatigue."
"Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be.
You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon."
"That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly
dislike.
I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and 'setting one's cap at
a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are the most odious of all.
Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed
clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity."
Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if
he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare
say, one way or other.
Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap
at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles."
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 10
Marianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled
Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal
enquiries.
He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir
John's account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed
during the visit tended to assure him of
the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom
accident had now introduced him.
Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be
convinced.
Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty
figure. Marianne was still handsomer.
Her form, though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of
height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of
praise, she was called a beautiful girl,
truth was less violently outraged than usually happens.
Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly
brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her
eyes, which were very dark, there was a
life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight.
From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which
the remembrance of his assistance created.
But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the
perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above
all, when she heard him declare, that of
music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as
secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.
It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk.
She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither
shyness nor reserve in their discussion.
They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual,
and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either.
Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question
him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon
with so rapturous a delight, that any young
man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an
immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before.
Their taste was strikingly alike.
The same books, the same passages were idolized by each--or if any difference
appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments
and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed.
He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his
visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established
acquaintance.
"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for ONE morning I think
you have done pretty well.
You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter
of importance.
You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating
their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring
Pope no more than is proper.
But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary
despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite
topic.
Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and
second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask."--
"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty?
But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy,
too frank.
I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and
sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful--
had I talked only of the weather and the
roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been
spared."
"My love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor--she was only in
jest.
I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of
your conversation with our new friend."-- Marianne was softened in a moment.
Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance,
which an evident wish of improving it could offer.
He came to them every day.
To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his
reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary
before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery.
She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been
less irksome.
Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively
spirits, and open, affectionate manners.
He was exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined not
only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and
increased by the example of her own, and
which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.
His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment.
They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and
he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted.
In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's; and Elinor saw
nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and
peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying
too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or
circumstances.
In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general
politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and
in slighting too easily the forms of
worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor could not approve, in
spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support.
Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen
and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been
rash and unjustifiable.
Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in
every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared
his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong.
Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had
been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and
expect it; and secretly to congratulate
herself on having gained two such sons-in- law as Edward and Willoughby.
Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been discovered by his
friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by
them.
Their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery
which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his
feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility.
Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which Mrs.
Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by
her sister; and that however a general
resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr.
Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard
of Colonel Brandon.
She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when
opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him
successful, she heartily wished him indifferent.
She liked him--in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of
interest.
His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of
some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper.
Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her
belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and
compassion.
Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by Willoughby
and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed
resolved to undervalue his merits.
"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they were talking
of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all
are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to."
"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne.
"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in both of you.
He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and I never see him myself
without taking pains to converse with him."
"That he is patronised by YOU," replied Willoughby, "is certainly in his favour;
but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself.
Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as Lady Middleton
and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of any body else?"
"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will make amends for
the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother.
If their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more
undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."
"In defence of your protege you can even be saucy."
"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always have attractions
for me.
Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty.
He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking
mind.
I have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has
always answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature."
"That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously, "he has told you, that in
the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are troublesome."
"He WOULD have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such inquiries, but they
happened to be points on which I had been previously informed."
"Perhaps," said Willoughby, "his observations may have extended to the
existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins."
"I may venture to say that HIS observations have stretched much further than your
candour. But why should you dislike him?"
"I do not dislike him.
I consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has every body's good
word, and nobody's notice; who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he
knows how to employ, and two new coats every year."
"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit.
That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no
expression."
"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor, "and so much on
the strength of your own imagination, that the commendation I am able to give of him
is comparatively cold and insipid.
I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle
address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart."
"Miss Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly.
You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will.
But it will not do.
You shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful.
I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon; he threatened me
with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my
curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare.
If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that I believe his
character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it.
And in return for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me
the privilege of disliking him as much as ever."
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 11
Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came into
Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly
presented themselves, or that they should
have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little
leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case.
When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir
John had been previously forming, were put into execution.
The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and
accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.
In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and familiarity
which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing
intimacy to his acquaintance with the
Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of
marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself,
the most pointed assurance of her affection.
Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment.
She only wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to
suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne.
But Marianne abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve;
and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable,
appeared to her not merely an unnecessary
effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken
notions.
Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration
of their opinions. When he was present she had no eyes for any
one else.
Every thing he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever.
If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself
and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand.
If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the
time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand
together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else.
Such conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could
not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.
Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no
inclination for checking this excessive display of them.
To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent
mind. This was the season of happiness to
Marianne.
Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she
brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought
it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her present home.
Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease, nor her
satisfaction in their amusements so pure.
They afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,
nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever.
Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she
missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had
regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse.
She had already repeated her own history to Elinor three or four times; and had
Elinor's memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very
early in their acquaintance all the
particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes
before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her
mother only in being more silent.
Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere
calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.
Towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore
neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had
not said the day before.
Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though
she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every thing were
conducted in style and her two eldest
children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than
she might have experienced in sitting at home;--and so little did her presence add
to the pleasure of the others, by any share
in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being
amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.
In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find a person who
could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of
friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.
Willoughby was out of the question.
Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he
was a lover; his attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man
might have been more generally pleasing.
Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of
Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the
indifference of her sister.
Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery
of disappointed love had already been known to him.
This suspicion was given by some words which accidently dropped from him one
evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the
others were dancing.
His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a
faint smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments."
"No," replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic."
"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist."
"I believe she does.
But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who had
himself two wives, I know not.
A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common
sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than
they now are, by any body but herself."
"This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is something so
amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to
the reception of more general opinions."
"I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor.
"There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the
charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for.
Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought;
and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest
possible advantage."
After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,--
"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a second attachment?
or is it equally criminal in every body?
Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the
inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be
equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?"
"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.
I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment's
being pardonable."
"This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of sentiments--No,
no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to
give way, how frequently are they succeeded
by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous!
I speak from experience.
I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought
and judged like her, but who from an inforced change--from a series of
unfortunate circumstances"-- Here he stopt
suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave
rise to conjectures, which might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head.
The lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss
Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips.
As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the
tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more.
But Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little.
The whole story would have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and
every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 12
As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the latter
communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of all that she knew before
of Marianne's imprudence and want of
thought, surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both.
Marianne told her, with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a
horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was
exactly calculated to carry a woman.
Without considering that it was not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if
she were to alter her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the
servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and
after all, build a stable to receive them, she had accepted the present without
hesitation, and told her sister of it in raptures.
"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it," she
added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day.
You shall share its use with me.
Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these
downs."
Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehend all the
unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some time she refused to submit to
them.
As to an additional servant, the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would
never object to it; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the
park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient.
Elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a man
so little, or at least so lately known to her.
This was too much.
"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very little of
Willoughby.
I have not known him long indeed, but I am much better acquainted with him, than I am
with any other creature in the world, except yourself and mama.
It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;--it is disposition
alone.
Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and
seven days are more than enough for others.
I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my
brother, than from Willoughby.
Of John I know very little, though we have lived together for years; but of Willoughby
my judgment has long been formed." Elinor thought it wisest to touch that
point no more.
She knew her sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would
only attach her the more to her own opinion.
But by an appeal to her affection for her mother, by representing the inconveniences
which that indulgent mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case)
she consented to this increase of
establishment, Marianne was shortly subdued; and she promised not to tempt her
mother to such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell
Willoughby when she saw him next, that it must be declined.
She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the cottage, the same
day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a low voice, on
being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present.
The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to
make further entreaty on his side impossible.
His concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he
added, in the same low voice,--"But, Marianne, the horse is still yours, though
you cannot use it now.
I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to form your own
establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you."
This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the sentence, in his
manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister by her Christian name
alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so
decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them.
From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the belief
of it created no other surprise than that she, or any of their friends, should be
left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident.
Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this matter in a still
clearer light.
Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some
time in the parlour with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for
observations, which, with a most important
face, she communicated to her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves.
"Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne.
I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon."
"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first met on High-
church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were
certain that Marianne wore his picture
round her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle."
"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon,
for he has got a lock of her hair."
"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle
of HIS." "But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's.
I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off.
Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering
and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of
her, and presently he took up her scissors
and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he
kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-
book."
For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her
credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with
what she had heard and seen herself.
Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her
sister.
When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young
man who was Elinor's particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great
curiosity to her, Margaret answered by
looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?"
This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.
But the effort was painful.
She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear
with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.
Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause,
by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret,
"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them."
"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who told me
of it yourself."
This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say
something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all
about it," said Mrs. Jennings.
"What is the gentleman's name?" "I must not tell, ma'am.
But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too."
"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure.
He is the curate of the parish I dare say." "No, THAT he is not.
He is of no profession at all."
"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an
invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence."
"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once,
and his name begins with an F."
Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment,
"that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less
from any attention to her, than from her
ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted
her husband and mother.
The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who
was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on
the subject of rain by both of them.
Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus
amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the
ground.
But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.
A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine
place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel
Brandon, without whose interest it could
not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that
head.
The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was
particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had
formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years.
They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of
the morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be
employed, and every thing conducted in the
usual style of a complete party of pleasure.
To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the
time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight;--and Mrs.
Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 13
Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had
expected.
She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was
still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all.
By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to
breakfast.
The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were
then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared.
They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined
to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.
While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in.
Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the
direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.
"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John.
Nobody could tell. "I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady
Middleton.
"It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my
breakfast table so suddenly." In about five minutes he returned.
"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room.
"None at all, ma'am, I thank you." "Was it from Avignon?
I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse."
"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter
of business."
"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business?
Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it."
"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."
"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said Mrs. Jennings,
without attending to her daughter's reproof.
"No, indeed, it is not."
"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel.
And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he,
colouring a little.
"Oh! you know who I mean."
"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should
receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate
attendance in town."
"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this
time of year?"
"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a
party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your
admittance at Whitwell."
What a blow upon them all was this! "But if you write a note to the
housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"
He shook his head.
"We must go," said Sir John.--"It shall not be put off when we are so near it.
You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all."
"I wish it could be so easily settled.
But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!"
"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might
see whether it could be put off or not."
"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to defer your
journey till our return." "I cannot afford to lose ONE hour."--
Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There are some people
who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them.
He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of
it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of
his own writing."
"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne. "There is no persuading you to change your
mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on
anything.
But, however, I hope you will think better of it.
Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods
walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his
usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."
Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the
party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable.
"Well, then, when will you come back again?"
"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can
conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return."
"You are very obliging.
But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not
engage for it at all." "Oh! he must and shall come back," cried
Sir John.
"If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him."
"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his
business is."
"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns.
I suppose it is something he is ashamed of."
Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.
"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John.
"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."
"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey.
But you had better change your mind." "I assure you it is not in my power."
He then took leave of the whole party.
"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss
Dashwood?" "I am afraid, none at all."
"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do."
To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.
"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going
about." He wished her a good morning, and, attended
by Sir John, left the room.
The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now
burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was
to be so disappointed.
"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly.
"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body. "Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am
sure."
"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know who Miss Williams
is? I am sure you must have heard of her
before.
She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a very near relation.
We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies."
Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She is his natural daughter."
"Indeed!" "Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare.
I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune."
When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so
unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got
together, they must do something by way of
being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could
only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by
driving about the country.
The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never
looked happier than when she got into it.
He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing
more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return
of all the rest.
They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms that
they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs.
It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should
be extremely merry all day long.
Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down
nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.
Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.
Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long seated, before
she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both
to hear, "I have found you out in spite of all your tricks.
I know where you spent the morning." Marianne coloured, and replied very
hastily, "Where, pray?"--
"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my curricle?"
"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to find out
WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss Marianne.
It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will have new-
furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six years ago."
Marianne turned away in great confusion.
Mrs. Jennings laughed heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where
they had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr. Willoughby's
groom; and that she had by that method been
informed that they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in
walking about the garden and going all over the house.
Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that
Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house while Mrs.
Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance.
As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it; and great
was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was
perfectly true.
Marianne was quite angry with her for doubting it.
"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we did not see
the house?
Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?"
"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with no other
companion than Mr. Willoughby."
"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew that house;
and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion.
I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life."
"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment does not
always evince its propriety."
"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if there had been
any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the
time, for we always know when we are acting
wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."
"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent
remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?"
"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety
in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.
I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation.
I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds,
or in seeing her house.
They will one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and- -"
"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be justified in
what you have done."
She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and after a ten
minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again, and said with
great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS
rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particularly to
shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure you.--There is one
remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs;
of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be
delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two
sides.
On one side you look across the bowling- green, behind the house, to a beautiful
hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and, beyond
them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often admired.
I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture,--
but if it were newly fitted up--a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make
it one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England."
Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others, she would
have described every room in the house with equal delight.
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 14
The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his steadiness in
concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two
or three days; she was a great wonderer, as
every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of
all their acquaintance.
She wondered, with little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there
must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have
befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all.
"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she.
"I could see it in his face.
Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad.
The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his
brother left everything sadly involved.
I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be?
I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of
it.
Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he
looked so conscious when I mentioned her.
May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she
is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss
Williams.
It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances NOW, for he
is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time.
I wonder what it can be!
May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.
His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it.
Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the
bargain." So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings.
Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally
probable as they arose.
Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could
not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was
desirous of her feeling; for besides that
the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety
of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of.
It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the
subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all.
As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more
incompatible with the disposition of both.
Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant
behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.
She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power;
for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich.
His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he
lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself
often complained of his poverty.
But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their
engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was
so wholly contradictory to their general
opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being
really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of
Marianne.
Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby's
behaviour.
To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover's heart could
give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a
brother.
The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his
hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them
at the park, the exercise which called him
out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was
spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet.
One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his
heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects
around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's
happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he
warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect
with him.
"What!" he exclaimed--"Improve this dear cottage!
No. THAT I will never consent to.
Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are
regarded."
"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be done; for my
mother will never have money enough to attempt it."
"I am heartily glad of it," he cried.
"May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better."
"Thank you, Willoughby.
But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment
of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world.
Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in
the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner
so painful to you.
But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?"
"I am," said he. "To me it is faultless.
Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is
attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up
again in the exact plan of this cottage."
"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor.
"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it;-
-in no one convenience or INconvenience about it, should the least variation be
perceptible.
Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I
have been at Barton."
"I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage of better rooms
and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now
do this."
"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it
to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can
possibly share."
Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so
expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him.
"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that
Barton cottage were inhabited!
I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that
no one should live in it.
How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith,
when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt
an immediate satisfaction and interest in
the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should
experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?"
speaking to her in a lowered voice.
Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs.
Dashwood?
You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear
parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours
have been since spent by us together, you
would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to
pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real
accommodation and comfort than any other
apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford."
Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted.
"You are a good woman," he warmly replied.
"Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will
make me happy.
Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find
you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider
me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me."
The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the whole of
the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.
"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them.
"I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on
Lady Middleton."
He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.
>