CHAPTER XXXIII After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sisters in treaties and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Grays in Sacville Street, where Eleanor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother. When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call, and as she had no business at Grays, it was resolved that while her young friends transacted theirs, she should pay her visit and return for them. On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them in the room that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders, and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession, one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that Eleanor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker dispatch. But the correctness of his eye and the delicacy of his taste proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick case for himself, until its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy. He had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies. Then what was comprised in three or four very broad stairs, a kind of notice which served to imprint on Eleanor the remembrance of a person and face of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion. Then was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the different toothpick cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all, for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself and be as ignorant of what was passing around her in Mr. Gray's shop as in her own bedroom. At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and effected indifference. Eleanor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.  Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. Sean Dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his sisters again. It rather gave them satisfaction, and his inquiries after their mother were respectable and attentive. Eleanor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days. I wished very much to call upon you yesterday, said he, but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange, and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrar's. Harry was vastly pleased. This morning I had fully intended to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half-hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal, but tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce me to them. As my mother-in-law's relations I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent neighbors to you in the country, I understand. Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express. I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word, extremely glad indeed, but so it ought to be, they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage, and want for nothing. Edward brought us a most charming account of the place, the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond anything. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you. Nor did feel little ashamed of her brother, and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door. Mr. Dashwood attended them downstairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave. Mrs. Visit was duly paid. He came with a pretense at an apology from their sister-in-law for not coming to. But she was so much engaged with her mother that really she had no leisure for going anywhere. Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to them, though calm, were perfectly kind. To Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil, and on Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to him. After staying with them half an hour he asked Eleanor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of the house his enquiries began. Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune? Yes, he is very good property in Dorseture. I am glad of it. He seems a most gentleman-like man, and I think Eleanor I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life. Me, brother, what do you mean? He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune? I believe about two thousand a year. Two thousand a year? And then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity he added, Eleanor I wish with all my heart it were twice as much, for your sake. Indeed, I believe you, replied Eleanor, but I am very sure that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying me. You are mistaken, Eleanor. You are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided. The smallness of your fortune may make him hang back. His friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side. In short, you know as to an attachment of that kind it is quite out of the question. The objections are insurmountable. You have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man, and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that, lowering his voice to an important whisper, will be exceedingly welcome to all parties. Recollecting himself, however, he added, that is, I mean to say, your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled, Fanny, particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother, too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her a great pleasure, she said as much the other day. Eleanor would not vouchsafe any answer. It would be something remarkable now, he continued, in droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the same time, and yet it is not very unlikely. Is Mr. Edward Ferrars, said Eleanor with resolution, going to be married? It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward and settle on him a thousand a year if the match takes place. The lady is the honourable Miss Morton, only daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds, a very desirable connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in time. A thousand a year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for ever, but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit, to give you another instance of her liberality. The other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put back notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds, and extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here. He paused for her assent and compassion, and she forced herself to say, your expenses both in town and country most certainly be considerable, but your income is a large one. Not so large, I daresay, as many people suppose. I do not mean to complain, however it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within this half year, East Kingham Farm. You must remember the place where old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt at my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience, and it has cost me a vast deal of money. More than you think it really and intrinsically worth. Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again the next day for more than I gave, but with regard to the purchase money I might have been very unfortunate indeed, for the stocks were at that time so low that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my bankers' hands I must have sold out to a very great loss. Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the Stanhill effects that remained at Norland, and very valuable they were, to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so. He had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose. But in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, etc., to supply the place of what was taken away. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrara's kindness is. Certainly, said Eleanor, and assisted by her liberality I hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances. Their year or two may do much towards it, he gravely replied, but however there is still a great deal to be done, there is not a stone laid of Fanny's greenhouse and nothing but the plan of the flower garden marked out. Where is the greenhouse to be? Upon the knoll behind the house the old wallet-trees are all come down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many parts of the park, and the flower garden will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the brow. Eleanor kept her concern and her censure to herself, and was very thankful that Marianne was not present to share the provocation. Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a pair of earrings for each of his sisters in his next visit at Gray's, his thoughts took a cheerful return, and he began to congratulate Eleanor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings. She seems a most valuable woman indeed. Her house, her style of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income, and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially advantageous. Her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in your favour, and indeed it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability that when she dies you will not be forgotten. She must have a great deal to leave. Nothing at all I should rather suppose, for she has only her jointure which will descend to her children. But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few people of common prudence will do that, and whatever she saves she will be able to dispose of. And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her daughters than to us? Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on our future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour, and she can hardly do all this without being aware of the expectation it raises. But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far. Why, to be sure, said he, seeming to recollect himself, people have little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Eleanor, what is the matter with Marianne? She looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and has grown quite thin. Is she ill? She is not well. She has had a nervous complaint on her for several weeks. I am sorry for that. At her time of life anything of an illness destroys the bloom for ever. Hers has been a very short one. She was as handsome a girl last September as I ever saw, and is likely to attract the man. There was something in her style of beauty to please them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and better than you did. Not but what she is exceedingly fond of you, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I question whether Marianne now will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a year at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if you do not do better. Dorseture I know very little of Dorseture, but, my dear Eleanor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it, and I think I can answer of your having Fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors. Eleanor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon, but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself to be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal, and an offer from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect. They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow. While Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance worth having, and Mr. Dashwood went away delighted with both. I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny, said he, as he walked back with his sister. Lady Middleton is really a most elegant woman, such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs. Jennings, too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting her, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very naturally, for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man who had got all his money in a low way, and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrar's were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of her. Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter, and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy her notice. And as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most charming women in the world. Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a kind of cold-hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted them, and they sympathized with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor and a general want of understanding. The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings, and to her she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman of uncorrigal address, who met her husband's sisters without any affection, and almost without having anything to say to them. For of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half, in silence. Eleanor wanted very much to know, though she did not choose to ask, whether Edward was then in town, but nothing would have induced Fanny voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered, because she believed them still so very much attached to each other that they could not be too sedulously divided in word indeed on every occasion. The intelligence, however, which she would not give, soon flowed from another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Eleanor's compassion on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write. Edward ensured them himself of his being in town, within a very short time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on the table when they returned from their morning's engagements. Eleanor was pleased that he had called, and still more pleased that she had missed him. The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give them a dinner. And soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to Dine and Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to meet Mrs. Ferrar's, but Eleanor could not learn whether her sons were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing her, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement. For though she could not now meet Edward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though she could not now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in company with Mrs. Ferrar's, her curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever. The interest with which she thus anticipated the party was soon afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the Miss Steals were also to be at it. So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street, and it happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steals, as soon as the Dashwood's invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party took place. Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the gentlemen who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table, but as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome, and Lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card. On Eleanor its effect was very different. She began immediately to determine that Edward, who lived with his mother, must be asked, as his mother was, to a party given by his sister, and to see him for the first time after all that passed in the company of Lucy, she hardly knew how she could bear it. These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved, however, not by her own recollection, but by the goodwill of Lucy, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together. The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this formidable mother-in-law. "'Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood,' said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs together, for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings that they all followed the servant at the same time. There is nobody here but you that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good gracious! In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness depends on! That is to be my mother!' Eleanor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own, whom they were about to behold, but instead of doing that she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her, to the utter amazement of Lucy, who though really uncomfortable herself hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Eleanor. Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality in her figure, and serious, even to sourness in her aspect. Her complexion was shallow, and her features small, without beauty, and naturally without expression, but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity by giving it the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of many words, for unlike people in general she proportioned them to the number of her ideas, and of the few syllables that did escape her not one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited determination of disliking her at all events. Eleanor could not now be made unhappy by this behavior. A few months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly, but it was not a Mrs. Ferrars' power to distress her by it now. And the difference of her manners to the Miss Steals, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person, for Lucy was particularly distinguished, some of all others, had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify, while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung. Nor observed the studied attention with which the Miss Steals accorded its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all for. Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished, and Miss Steal wanted only to be teased about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy. The dinner was a grand one. The servants were numerous, and everything bespoke the mistress's inclination for show, and the master's ability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to infer from it. No poverty of any kind, except a conversation, appeared. But there the deficiency was considerable. King Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this, for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all labored under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable. Want of sense, either natural or improved. Want of elegance, want of spirits, or want of temper. When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen had supplied the discourse with some variety, the variety of politics, enclosing land, and breaking horses. But then it was all over, and one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of Harry Dashwood and Lady Middleton's second son, William, who were nearly of the same age. Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once. But as Harry only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides, and everybody had a right to be equally positive in their opinion and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked. The parties stood thus. The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in favor of the other. The two grandmothers, with not less partiality but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant. Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between them. The missteal, with yet greater address, gave it, as fast as she could, in favor of each. Eleanor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion, and Marianne, when called on for hers, offended them all by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had never thought about it. Before her removing from Norland Eleanor had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her present drawing-room, and these screens, catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the room, were officially handed by him to Colonel Brandon for his admiration. These are all done by my eldest sister, said he. And you, as a man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with him. I do not know whether you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well. The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have done anything painted by Miss Dashwood, and on the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrar's, not aware of their being Eleanor's work, particularly requested to look at them, and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady Middleton's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother, considerably informing her at the same time that they were done by Miss Dashwood. Hmm! said Mrs. Ferrar's. Very pretty. And without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter. Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude enough for colouring a little, she immediately said, They are very pretty, ma'am, ain't they? And then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added, Do you not think there is something in Miss Morton's style of painting, ma'am? She does paint most delightfully. How beautifully her last landscape is done! Beautifully indeed! But she does everything well. Marianne could not bear this. She was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrar's, and such ill-timed praise of another at Elinor's expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth, This is admiration of a very particular kind. What is Miss Morton to us? Who knows, or who cares for her? It is Elinor of whom we think and speak! And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands to admire them herself, as they ought to be admired. Mrs. Ferrar's looked exceedingly angry, and, drawing her up more stiffly than ever pronounced in retort, this bitter phallipic, Miss Morton is Lord Morton's daughter. Fanny looked very angry, too, and her husband was all in a fright at his sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than she had been by what produced it. But Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point. Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrar's general behavior to her sister seemed to her to foretell such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of, with horror, and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility. She moved after a moment to her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck and one cheek close to hers, said in a low but eager voice, Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make you unhappy. She could say no more. Her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor's shoulder she burst into tears. Everybody's attention was called, and almost everybody was concerned. Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did. Mrs. Jennings was a very intelligent, ah, poor dear! Immediately gave her her salts, and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair. In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest, though her spirits retained the impression of what had passed the whole evening. Poor Marianne, said her brother to Colonel Brandon in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention. She is not such good health, as her sister. She is very nervous. She is not Elinor's constitution, and one must allow that there is something very trying to a young woman who has been a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it, perhaps, but Marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago. Quite as handsome as Elinor. Now you see, it is all gone. Chapter 35 Elinor's Curiosity to See Mrs. Ferrarz was satisfied. She had found in her everything that could tend to make a farther connection between the family's undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself to comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise free, and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her own sake that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrarz's creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to Lucy, she determined that had Lucy been more amiable, she ought to have rejoiced. She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the civility of Mrs. Ferrarz that her interest and her vanity should so very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she was not Elinor, appear as a compliment to herself, or to allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not only been declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly. For at her particular desire Lady Middleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone to tell her how happy she was. The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after she arrived carried Mrs. Jennings away. My dear friend, cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, I'd come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as Mrs. Ferrarz's ways of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was. You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her, but the very moment I was introduced there was such an affability in her behavior as really should seem to say she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so? You saw it all, and was not you quite struck with it? She was certainly very civil to you. Civil? Did you see nothing but only civility? I saw a vast deal more. Such kindness has fell to the share of nobody but me. No pride, no hauteur, and your sister just the same, all sweetness and affability. Eleanor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to own that she had reason for her happiness, and Eleanor was obliged to go on. Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement, said she, nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you, but as that was not the case— I guessed you would say so, replied Lucy quickly, but there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrarz should seem to like me if she did not, and her liking me is everything. You shan't talk me out of my satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrarz is a charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women, indeed! I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was. Maybe this Eleanor had no answer to make and did not attempt any. Are you ill, Mrs. Dashwood? You seem low. You don't speak. Sure you aren't well. I never was in better health. I am glad of it with all my heart, but really you did not look it. I should be sorry to have you ill, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world. Everyone knows what I should have done without your friendship. Eleanor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success, but it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied, Indeed, I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to Edward's love it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! But now there is one good thing. We shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we should be a good deal in Harley Street, I daresay. And Edward spends half his time with his sister. Besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Farrars will visit now, and Mrs. Farrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once. They should always be glad to see me.  I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you cannot speak too high. But Eleanor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she should tell her sister. Lucy continued, I am sure I should have seen it in a moment if Mrs. Farrars had took a dislike to me, if she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way, you know what I mean. If I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she does dislike, I know it is most violent. Eleanor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph by the doors being thrown open, the servants announcing Mr. Farrars and Edward's immediately walking in. It was a very awkward moment, and the countenance of each showed that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish, and Edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again as to advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them. They were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him said no more. But Eleanor had more to do, and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy and almost open, and another struggle, another effort still improve them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home when he had called before him Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her. Her manners gave some reassurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to sit down, but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare, for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Eleanor's. Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word, and almost everything that was said, preceded from Eleanor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, etc., which Edward ought to have inquired about but never did. Her exertions did not stop here, for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by themselves, and she really did it, and that in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease, for Marianne's joy turned her into the drawing- room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister. Dear Edward! she cried, this is a moment of great happiness. This would almost make amends for everything. Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two, all were silent. While Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Eleanor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her. Oh, don't think of me! she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke. Don't think of my health! Eleanor is well, you see! That must be enough for us both. This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Eleanor more easy, nor to conciliate the goodwill of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression. Do you like London? said Edward, willing to say anything that might introduce another subject. Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded, and thank heaven, you are what you always were. She paused. No one spoke. I think, Eleanor, she presently added, we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton in a week or two. I suppose we shall be going, and I trust Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge. Poor Edward muttered something but what it was nobody knew, not even himself, but Marianne, who saw his agitation and could easily trace it to whatever caused best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied and soon talked of something else. We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday, so dull, so wretchedly dull, but I have much to say to you on that head which cannot be said now. And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private. But why were you not there, Edward? Why did you not come? I was engaged elsewhere. Engaged? But what was that when such friends were to be met? Perhaps Miss Marianne cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on her. You think young men never stand upon engagements if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great. Edward was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting, for she calmly replied. Not so, indeed, for seriously speaking I am very sure the conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street, and I really believe he has the most delicate conscience in the world, the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What, are you never to hear yourself praised? Then you must be no friend of mine, for those who will accept of my love and esteem must submit to my open commendation. The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two-thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward that he very soon got up to go away. Going so soon, said Marianne, my dear Edward, this must not be. And drawing him a little aside she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go, and Lucy, who would have outstayed him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away. What can bring her here so often? said Marianne, on her leaving them. Could she not see that we wanted her gone? How teasing to Edward! Why so? We were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves. Marianne looked at her steadily and said, You know, Eleanor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances that are not really wanted. She then left the room, and Eleanor dared not follow her to say more. Forbound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no information that would convince Marianne, and painful as the consequences of her still continuing in an error might be. She was obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope was that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken warmth, or to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting, and this she had every reason to expect. CHAPTER XXXVI This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, CHAPTER XXXVI Within a few days after this meeting the newspapers announced to the world that the lady of Thomas Palmer Esquire was safely delivered of a sun and air, a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before. This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of her young friends, for as she wished to be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening, and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least to all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house, but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of every body. Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steals, by whom their company, in fact, was as little valued as it was professedly sought. They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former, and by the latter they were considered with a jealousy, as intruding on their ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behavior to Eleanor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured, and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical, perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical. But that did not signify. It was censure in common use and easily given. Their presence was of restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the idleness of one and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering. Miss Steel was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence, and it was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not granted, for though she often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to Eleanor, and more than once dropped a reflection on the inconstancy of bows before Marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the former or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about the doctor? But so little were they, any more than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home she might spend a whole day without hearing any other railery on this subject than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself. All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls to be together, and generally congratulated her young friends every night on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at her own house, but wherever it was she always came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well-doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One thing did disturb her, and of that she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the common but unfatherly opinion among his sex of all infants being alike, and though she could plainly perceive at different times the most striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father of it, no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age, nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world. I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance had dropped in, a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her, but while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present instance this last arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability that on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street, and this misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards cards of invitation for them, as well as their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. The consequence of which was that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention, and who could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time. The power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough, for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of anything better from them. Marianne had now been brought by degrees so much into the habit of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her whether she went or not, and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, to the last moment, where it was to take her. To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent as not to bestow half the consideration on it during the whole of her toilet which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being together when it was finished. Having escaped her minute observation and general curiosity, she saw everything, and asked everything, was neither easy till she knew the price of every part of Marianne's dress, could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes of finding out before they parted how much her washing cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. The impertinence of these kinds of scrutiny, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment, which, though meant as its doceur, was considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all, for after undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of being told that upon her words she looked vastly smart, and she dared to say she would make great many conquests. With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present occasion to her brother's carriage, which they were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman. The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all, and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in England. As Eleanor was neither musical nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of turning her eyes from the grand piano forte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp and violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men the very he who had given them a lecture on toothpick cases at Grey's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother, and had just determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr. Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrar's. He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow which assured her as plainly as words could have done that he was exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations. For then his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she wandered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one put her out of all charity with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they were different, Robert exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation, for, talking of his brother, and lamenting that extreme gocherey which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it, much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education, while he himself, though probably without any particular any material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man. "'Upon my soul,' he added, "'I believe it is nothing more, and so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. "'My dear madam,' I always say to her, "'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place Edward under private tuition at the most critical time of his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been prevented. This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error.' Eleanor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family with any satisfaction. "'You reside in Devonshire, I think,' was his next observation, in a cottage near Dallish. Edward set him right as to its situation, and it seemed rather surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire without living near Dallish. He bestowed his hearty approbation, however, on their species of house. "'For my own part,' said he, "'I am excessively fond of a cottage. There is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself within a short distance of London, or I might drive myself down at any time and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise everybody who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of bonomies. I was to decide on the best of them. My dear Courtland, said I, immediately throwing them all into the fire. Do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage. And that, I fancy, will be the end of it." Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage, but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend Elliot's, near Dartford.  But how can it be done, said she. My dear Farrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be? I immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, My dear Lady Elliot, do not be uneasy. The dining parlor will admit eighteen couple with ease. Card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room. The library may be open for tea and other refreshments, and let the supper be set out in the saloon. Lady Elliot was delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-room and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling. Eleanor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition. As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on anything else, and a thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife for her approbation when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Denison's mistake, in supposing his sister's their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home. The expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more, and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Many was startled at the proposal. "'I do not see how it can be done,' said she, without affronting Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her. Otherwise I should be exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But they are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?' Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her objection. They had already spent a week in this mannering conduit street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such near relations. Fanny paused a moment, and then with fresh figures said, "'My love I would ask them with all my heart if it was in my power, but I had just settled within myself to ask them as steels to spend a few days with us. They are very well-behaved, good kind of girls, and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know, but the Miss Steels may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them, indeed. You do like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother, and they are such favourites with Harry.'" Edward Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss Steels immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another year, at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Eleanor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as their visitor. Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy to request her company and her sisters for some days in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself, cherishing all her hopes and promoting all her views. Such an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings. It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of, and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days' time. When the note was shown to Eleanor, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of Lucy. For such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the goodwill towards her arose from something more than merely malice against herself, and might be brought by time and address to do everything that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood, and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater. The Miss Steals removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Eleanor of their influence there strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them, had given each of them a needle-book made by some immigrant, called Lucy by her Christian name, and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them. End of chapter 37 Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her, and, contending herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share. About the third or fourth morning after there being thus resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Eleanor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful, and giving her time only to form that idea began directly to justify it by saying, Lord, my dear Miss Dashwood, have you heard the news? No, ma'am, what is it? Something so strange, but you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr. Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill. It cried and fretted and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly and, Lord, my dear, said I, it is nothing in the world but the red gum. And nurse said just the same, but Charlotte she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donovan was sent for, and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head. I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that he smirked and simpered and looked grave and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, for fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sisters in disposition, I think it advisable to say that I believe there is no great reason for alarm. I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well. What? Is Fanny ill? That is exactly what I said, my dear. Lord, says I, is Mrs. Dashwood ill? So then it all came out, and the long and the short of the matter by all I can learn seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrar's, the very young man I used to joke with you about, but however as it turns out I am monstrous glad there was never anything in it. Mr. Edward Ferrar's, it seems, has been engaged above this twelve month to my cousin Lucy. There's for you, my dear, and not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter except Nancy. Can you have believed such a thing possible? There is no great wonder if they're liking one another, but that matter should be brought so forward between them and nobody suspected. That is strange. I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret for fear of Mrs. Ferrar's, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter.  It thinks she to herself. They are also fond of Lucy to be sure they will make no difficulty about it. And so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come, for she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between Edward and some lord's daughter or his other. I forget who.  She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing room downstairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the country.  Poor soul, I pity her, and I must say I think she was used very hardly, for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly, and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared that they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon his knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. Soon she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would sin for Mr. Donovan, and Mr. Donovan found the house in all this uproar.  Poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk, and Nancy she was almost as bad. I declare I have no patience with your sister, and I hope with all my heart it will be a match in spite of her. Lord, what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it, to have his love you so scornfully! For they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not wonder if he was to be in the greatest passion, and Mr. Donovan thinks just the same. He and I had a great deal of talk about it, and the best of all is that he has gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferraris is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house. For your sister was sure she would be in hysterics, too, and so she may for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of peoples making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry, for I am sure Mrs. Ferraris may afford to do very well by her son, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than anybody how to make the most of everything. I daresay if Mrs. Ferraris would only allow him five hundred a year, she would make as good an appearance with it as anybody else would with eight. Lord, how snug they might live in such another cottage as yours, or a little bigger, with two maids and two men, and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my bet he has a sister out of place that would fit them exactly. Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Eleanor had had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer and make such observations as the subject might naturally be supposed to produced. Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it that Mrs. Jennings, as she had of late often hoped might be the case, had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward, and happy above all the rest in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of everyone concerned in it. She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was, though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear, and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For him she felt much compassion, for Lucy very little, and it cost her some pains to procure that little, for the rest of the party none at all. As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject Eleanor soon saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. Though time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against Edward. Eleanor's office was a painful one. She was going to remove what she really believed to be her sister's chief consolation, to give such particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion, and to make Marianne by a resemblance in their situations which to her fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and Eleanor therefore hastened to perform it. She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings or to represent herself as suffering much. Any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagement might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple, and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation nor impetuous grief. That belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne listened with horror and cried excessively. Eleanor was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses no less than in theirs, and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence was readily offered. But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed a second Willoughby, and acknowledging as Eleanor did that she had loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself? As for Lucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural, and Eleanor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince her a better knowledge of mankind. Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of the engagement and the length of time it had existed. Marianne's feelings had then broken in and put an end to all regularity of detail, and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first question on her side, which led to further particulars, was, How long has this been known to you, Eleanor? Has he written to you? I have known of it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement. At these words Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed, Four months! Have you known of this four months? Eleanor confirmed it. What, while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart? And I have reproached you for being happy. It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse. Four months! cried Marianne again. So calm, so cheerful! How have you been supported? By feeling that I was doing my duty, my promise to Lucy obliged me to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth, and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me which it could not be of my power to satisfy. Marianne seemed much struck. I have very often wished to un-deceive yourself and my mother, added Eleanor, and once or twice I have attempted it, but without betraying my trust I never could have convinced you. Four months! And yet you loved him! Yes, but I did not love only him, and while the comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my account, for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own. I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther. I quit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very happy, and I am so sure of his always doing his duty that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is the foundation on which everything good may be built. And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant, it is not fit, it is not possible that it should be so. Edward will marry Lucy, he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her sex, and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to her. If such is your way of thinking, said Marianne, if the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your emotion, your self-command are perhaps a little less to be wondered at, they are brought more within my comprehension.  For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature, knowing that it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. It was told me, it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects, and told me, as I thought, with triumph. This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply interested, and it has not been only once, I have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and again, and I have known myself to be divided from Edward for ever without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him unworthy, nor has anything declared him indifferent to me. I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother, and have suffered the punishment of an attachment without enjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a time when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If you can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I have suffered now. The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion. They did not spring up of themselves. They did not occur to relieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne. Then, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely, not even when I owed to my dearest friends, from openly showing that I was very unhappy. Marianne was quite subdued. Oh, Eleanor! she cried. You have made me hate myself for ever. How barbarous have I been to you! You who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seen to be only suffering for me. Is this my gratitude? Is this the only return I can make you? Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away. The tendress caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of mind as she was now in, Eleanor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise she required, and at her request Marianne engaged never to speak of the affair to anyone with the least appearance of bitterness, to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her, and even to see Edward himself, if chance, should bring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality. These were great concessions, but where Marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make. She performed her promise of being discreet to admiration. She attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, descended from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, Yes, ma'am. She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward's affection it cost her only a spasm in her throat. Such advances towards heroism in her sister made Eleanor feel equal to anything herself. The next morning brought a farther trial of it in a visit from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife. You have heard, I suppose, said he with great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday. They all looked their assent. It seemed too awful a moment for speech. Your sister, he continued, has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrar's, too, in short, it has been a scene of such complicated distress, but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! She was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much. Donovan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended. Her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to anything. She is born at all with a fortitude of an angel. She says she shall never think well of anybody again, and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived. Being with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence had been placed, it was quite out of the benevolence of her heart that she had asked these young women to her house, merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions. For otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded! I wish, with all my heart, says poor Fanny and her affectionate way, that we had asked your sisters instead of them. Here he stopped to be thanked, which, being done, he went on. What poor Mrs. Ferrar suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person? Such a suspicion could never have entered her head. If she suspected any prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in that quarter. There, to be sure, said she, I might have thought myself safe. She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came, but I am sorry to elate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrar's could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted to as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, everything was disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton, told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land tax, brings in a good thousand a year, offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred, in an opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all. She would never see him again, and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it. Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together and cried, Gracious God, can this be possible? Well, may you wonder, Marianne, replied her brother, at the obstinacy, which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural. Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises and forbore. All this, however, he continued, was urged in vain. Edward said very little, but what he did say was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might. Then cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent. He is acted like an honest man. I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one whom more deserves a good husband. John Dashwood was greatly astonished, but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied without any resentment. I would, by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I daresay, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case, you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially, of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrar's, is perhaps altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behavior of any person whom you have regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy, and Mrs. Ferrar's conduct throughout the whole has been such as every conscientious good mother in like circumstances would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one. Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension, and Eleanor's heart wrung for the feelings of Edward while braving his mother's threats for a woman who could not reward him. Well, sir, said Mrs. Jennings, and how did it end? I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture. Edward is dismissed forever from his mother's notice. He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone and whether he is still in town, I do not know, for we, of course, can make no inquiry. Poor young man, and what is to become of him? What indeed, ma'am, it is a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence, I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds, how can a man live on it? And when to that is added the recollection that he might but for his own folly within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand five hundred a year, for Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds, I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must all feel for him, and the more so because it is totally out of our power to assist him. Poor young man, cried Mrs. Jennings, I am sure he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house, and so I would tell him if I could see him, it is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns. Eleanor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form of it. If he would only have done as well by himself, said John Dashwood, as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him, and there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all. His mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle that estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's, on proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer talking over the business. Well, said Mrs. Jennings, that is her revenge. Everybody has a way of their own, but I don't think mine would be to make one son independent because another had plagued me. Marianne got up and walked about the room. Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man, continued John, than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own? Or Edward, I feel for him sincerely. A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion concluded his visit, and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it. He went away, leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Jennings' conduct, the Dashwoods, and Edwards. Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room, and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Eleanor and unnecessary in Mrs. Jennings, they all