One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her
brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton
without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to
Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and
sisters in town;--and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland
whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was
the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public,
assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should
come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the
country.

It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send
her to Delaford;--a place, in which, of all others, she would now least
chuse to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as
her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when
they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.

Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties
from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective
homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road.  For the convenience of
Charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their
journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel
Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.

Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as
she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid
adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those
hopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished
for ever, without great pain.  Nor could she leave the place in which
Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which
SHE could have no share, without shedding many tears.

Elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.
She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left
no creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be
divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the
persecution of Lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her
sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked
forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might
do towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own.

Their journey was safely performed.  The second day brought them into
the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was
it dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of
the third they drove up to Cleveland.

Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping
lawn.  It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably
extensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance,
it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth
gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was
dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of
the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them
altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the
offices.

Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the
consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty
from Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its
walls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child
to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the
winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a
distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering
over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on
the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their
summits Combe Magna might be seen.

In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears
of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit
to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of
wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she
resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained
with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.

She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house,
on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of
the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen
garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the
gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the
green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,
and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of
Charlotte,--and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the
disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or
being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young
brood, she found fresh sources of merriment.

The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment
abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay
at Cleveland.  With great surprise therefore, did she find herself
prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner.  She had
depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over
the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred
her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even SHE could not fancy dry
or pleasant weather for walking.

Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away.  Mrs. Palmer
had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the
friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements,
and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther
than Reading that night.  Elinor, however little concerned in it,
joined in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding
her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by
the family in general, soon procured herself a book.

Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly
good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome.  The
openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of
recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms
of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was
engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was
not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.

The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording
a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to
their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had
reduced very low.

Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so
much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew
not what to expect to find him in his own family.  She found him,
however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors,
and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him
very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from
being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much
superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs.
Jennings and Charlotte.  For the rest of his character and habits, they
were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all
unusual in his sex and time of life.  He was nice in his eating,
uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight
it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been
devoted to business.  She liked him, however, upon the whole, much
better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she
could like him no more;--not sorry to be driven by the observation of
his Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with
complacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple
taste, and diffident feelings.

Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received
intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire
lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of
Mr. Ferrars, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to her a
great deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies,
and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them.--His
behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his
open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his
readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion,
might very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment,
and would have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the
first, believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it
herself.  But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her
head, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and she could not help
believing herself the nicest observer of the two;--she watched his
eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour;--and while his
looks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and
throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words,
entirely escaped the latter lady's observation;--SHE could discover in
them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.

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

Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry
replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging
in her accustomary employments.  But a day spent in sitting shivering
over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or
in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of
her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more
indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's
composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against
Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,
trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and
felt no real alarm.

A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the
expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,
confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her
bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending
for the Palmers' apothecary.

He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to
expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by
pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the
word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer,
on her baby's account.  Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the
first to think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor, now
looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Charlotte's
fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with
her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as
idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be
withstood.  Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour
after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his
nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a
few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at
her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was
almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her.  Mrs. Jennings,
however, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her,
declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as
Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care,
to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and
Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate,
desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better
experience in nursing, of material use.

Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and
feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow
would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have
produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for
on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended
the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their
mother by surprise on the following forenoon.  The little she said was
all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to
raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she THEN really believed
herself, that it would be a very short one.

The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the
patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no
amendment, did not appear worse.  Their party was now farther reduced;
for Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity
and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away
by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his
promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel
Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going
likewise.--Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most
acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much
uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she
thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his
stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to
play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her
sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was
gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not
long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was
warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,
in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss
Dashwood in any emergence.

Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.
She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of
Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival.  It
gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it
gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.

Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her
situation continued, with little variation, the same.  Mr. Harris, who
attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and
Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others
was by no means so cheerful.  Mrs. Jennings had determined very early
in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel
Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's
forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence.  He
tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of
the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day
in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the
admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his
mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.

On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of
both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared
his patient materially better.  Her pulse was much stronger, and every
symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit.  Elinor, confirmed
in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her
letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her
friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them
at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able
to travel.

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.-- Towards the
evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and
uncomfortable than before.  Her sister, however, still sanguine, was
willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of
having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the
cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a
slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects.  Her
sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a
considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she
resolved to sit with her during the whole of it.  Mrs. Jennings,
knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to
bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating
herself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with
Marianne.

The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her
sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of
posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint
which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful
a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in
the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,--

"Is mama coming?--"

"Not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting
Marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, I hope, before it is
long.  It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton."

"But she must not go round by London," cried Marianne, in the same
hurried manner.  "I shall never see her, if she goes by London."

Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while
attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse.  It was lower and
quicker than ever!  and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her
alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly
for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.
To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the
latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its
performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by
her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he
was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.

It was no time for hesitation.  Her fears and her difficulties were
immediately before him.  Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to
attempt the removal of:--he listened to them in silent despondence;--but
her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that
seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind,
he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood.
Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him
with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his
servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses
directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.

The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon--or such
a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a companion
whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose
friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a summons
COULD be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance,
would lessen it.

HE, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a
collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost
despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might
look for his return.  Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind.  The
horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon
only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken
too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage.  It was then about
twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for
the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the
night.  It was a night of almost equal suffering to both.  Hour after
hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and
in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared.  Her
apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former
security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow
Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what
her mistress had always thought.

Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her
mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the
heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with
so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,
fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had
been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother
arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.

She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if HE could
not come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after
five o'clock--arrived.  His opinion, however, made some little amends
for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and
unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to
be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment
must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was
communicated to Elinor.  He promised to call again in the course of
three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious
attendant more composed than he had found them.

With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to
their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.
Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no
doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her
conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the
comfort of hope.  Her heart was really grieved.  The rapid decay, the
early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck
a less interested person with concern.  On Mrs. Jennings's compassion
she had other claims.  She had been for three months her companion, was
still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured,
and long unhappy.  The distress of her sister too, particularly a
favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings
considered that Marianne might probably be to HER what Charlotte was to
herself, her sympathy in HER sufferings was very sincere.

Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;--but he came to be
disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce.  His
medicines had failed;--the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more
quiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor.  Elinor, catching
all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in
further advice.  But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something
more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as
confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging
assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss
Dashwood.  She was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she
was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon,
scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from
one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits
oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who
scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the
many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment
had brought on.  Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it
gave fresh misery to her reflections.

About noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of
disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her
friend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her
sister's pulse;--she waited, watched, and examined it again and
again;--and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under
exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to
communicate her hopes.  Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination,
to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from
indulging a thought of its continuance;--and Elinor, conning over every
injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope.  But it was
too late.  Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious
flutter, she bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what.
Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her.
Others even arose to confirm it.  Her breath, her skin, her lips, all
flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes
on her with a rational, though languid, gaze.  Anxiety and hope now
oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity
till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock;--when his assurances,
his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his
expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.

Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her
entirely out of danger.  Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the
partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their
late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,
with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the
probability of an entire recovery.

Elinor could not be cheerful.  Her joy was of a different kind, and led
to any thing rather than to gaiety.  Marianne restored to life, health,
friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with
sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent
gratitude;--but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words,
no smiles.  All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and
strong.

She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the
whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her
enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every
look and every breath.  The possibility of a relapse would of course,
in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was--but when she
saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of
recovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet,
steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every
doubt.

The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected
back.  At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her
mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must
now be travelling towards them.  The Colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely
less an object of pity!--Oh!--how slow was the progress of time which
yet kept them in ignorance!

At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined
Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea.  Of breakfast she had been
kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating
much;--and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of
content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome.  Mrs. Jennings
would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before
her mother's arrival, and allow HER to take her place by Marianne; but
Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment
about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an
unnecessary instant.  Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs
into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,
left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her
own room to write letters and sleep.

The night was cold and stormy.  The wind roared round the house, and
the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,
regarded it not.  Marianne slept through every blast; and the
travellers--they had a rich reward in store, for every present
inconvenience.

The clock struck eight.  Had it been ten, Elinor would have been
convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the
house; and so strong was the persuasion that she DID, in spite of the
ALMOST impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into
the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be
satisfied of the truth.  She instantly saw that her ears had not
deceived her.  The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in
view.  By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be
drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor
mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.

Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at
that moment.  The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the
carriage stopt at the door--of her doubt--her dread--perhaps her
despair!--and of what SHE had to tell!--with such knowledge it was
impossible to be calm.  All that remained to be done was to be speedy;
and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid
with her sister, she hurried down stairs.

The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,
assured her that they were already in the house.  She rushed to the
drawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.

A few days after their arrival at Cleveland, Marianne took ill with a violent cold. As she did not improve, Mrs. Jennings sent for the apothecary, who pronounced her disorder to be of an infectious variety. Mrs. Palmer, fearing for her baby, departed with him to a relative's home in the neighborhood, but Mrs. Jennings insisted on staying to help nurse Marianne. After a few days, Marianne seemed to get better, but suddenly she had a relapse, and Elinor decided to send for their mother. Colonel Brandon offered to go for her "with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion and the service pre-arranged in his mind." Things seemed very bad and Mrs. Jennings was convinced Marianne would not survive. But as suddenly as she was stricken, Marianne began to get better and was declared out of danger. On that day, Elinor heard a carriage approaching and hurried down, thinking it must be Colonel Brandon and her mother. To her surprise, it was Willoughby.

The gentry of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries were keenly interested in planning their gardens. Ruins of Grecian temples were often placed in the grounds to add a romantic touch to the landscape. The apothecary was the man who prepared drugs, as opposed to the doctor who prescribed them. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, however, the apothecary had the skill and power to care for patients in the same way as the doctor. Note that Mrs. Palmer's baby was treated by a doctor in London but only an apothecary was available in the country. Much to our surprise, Mr. Palmer, in his own habitat, is almost as warm as his wife. Mrs. Jennings has truly become one of the heroines of the story, where, as a mother, she is a striking contrast to the cold, barren Mrs. Ferrars. Marianne is paying for her folly with a very tangible illness. She cannot go out in the damp, wild grass -- symbolic of her own excesses of emotion -- without being punished.


Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the
sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a
crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness
was the general result, to think even of her sister.

Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most
worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a
degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made
her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a
tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
within herself--to his wishes than to his merits.  She felt that his
influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not
in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that
open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;
and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even
innocent to indulge.  But she felt that it was so, long, long before
she could feel his influence less.

When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her
just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of
her hopes.  Elinor's heart was full.  The past, the present, the
future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's
expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits
which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful
of betraying herself to her sister.  Short was the time, however, in
which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after
Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the
sound of another carriage.--Eager to save her mother from every
unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the
hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support
her as she entered it.

Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced
almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to
inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither
for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;--and her
mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much
overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears.  She
was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her
friend;--and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to
speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals
to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her
gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss
of the moment.  He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than
her own.

As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her
first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,
rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only
checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther
sleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when
the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing
her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for
conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by
every nurse around her.  Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night;
and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed.  But
the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the
most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by
irritation of spirits.  Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now
allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would
not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now
acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before.  But her
promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful.  She
dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne
might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be
happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.
Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS
sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward
of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.
Willoughby's death.

The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened
to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her
uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out
for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further
intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,
that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,
as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.

Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of
Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly
declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.  Elinor could
not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes
wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward.  But Mrs.
Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment
which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to
think only of what would increase it.  Marianne was restored to her
from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken
judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had
contributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another
source of joy unthought of by Elinor.  It was thus imparted to her, as
soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.

"At last we are alone.  My Elinor, you do not yet know all my
happiness.  Colonel Brandon loves Marianne.  He has told me so himself."

Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and
not surprised, was all silent attention.

"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your
composure now.  Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my
family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as
the object most desirable.  And I believe Marianne will be the most
happy with him of the two."

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,
characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be
carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and
therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled.  It came
out quite unawares, quite undesignedly.  I, you may well believe, could
talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I saw
that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship,
as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather,
not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings,
made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for
Marianne.  He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of
seeing her."

Here, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions
of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's
active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.

"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby
ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or
constant--which ever we are to call it--has subsisted through all the
knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless
young man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could
he have seen her happy with another--Such a noble mind!--such openness,
such sincerity!--no one can be deceived in HIM."

"Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is
well established."

"I know it is,"--replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning,
I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased
by it.  But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready
friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men."

"His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on ONE act of
kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the
case, would have prompted him.  To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he
has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him;
and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very
considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne
can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our
connection the greatest blessing to us in the world.  What answer did
you give him?--Did you allow him to hope?"

"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
Marianne might at that moment be dying.  But he did not ask for hope or
encouragement.  His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible
effusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent.  Yet
after a time I DID say, for at first I was quite overcome--that if she
lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in
promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful
security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every
encouragement in my power.  Time, a very little time, I tell him, will
do everything;--Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a
man as Willoughby.-- His own merits must soon secure it."

"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made
him equally sanguine."

"No.--He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change
in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again
free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a
difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her.  There,
however, he is quite mistaken.  His age is only so much beyond hers as
to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and
his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make
your sister happy.  And his person, his manners too, are all in his
favour.  My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so
handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much
more pleasing in his countenance.-- There was always a something,--if
you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like."

Elinor could NOT remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her
assent, continued,

"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to
me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to
be more solidly attaching to Marianne.  Their gentleness, their genuine
attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much
more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often
artificial, and often ill-timed of the other.  I am very sure myself,
that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved
himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with
HIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon."

She paused.--Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her
dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.

"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs.
Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I
hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly MUST be some small
house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our
present situation."

Poor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but
her spirit was stubborn.

"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares
about THAT;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it
really is, I am sure it must be a good one."

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and
Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her
friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.

Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long
enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and
her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her
to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.
Palmer's dressing-room.  When there, at her own particular request, for
she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her
mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in
receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was
such, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than
his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to
others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying
complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many
past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance
between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened
by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,
and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.

Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but
with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very
different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose
from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions
and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something
more than gratitude already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger
every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her
daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton.  On HER
measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not
quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon
brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as
equally determinate, if not equally indispensable.  At his and Mrs.
Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to
accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better
accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint
invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature
made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself,
engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the
course of a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking
so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly
grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own
heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding
Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully
assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she
should engross at least half.  Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed,
and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and
feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise
to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young
companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his
solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey
on both, without essential fatigue.  Every thing that the most zealous
affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable,
was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward
in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits.  To Elinor, the
observation of the latter was particularly grateful.  She, who had seen
her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of
heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to
conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an
apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted
of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and
cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every
field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,
she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their
notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window.  But here, Elinor
could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted
Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an
emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity,
and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise.  In the whole of her
subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to
reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common
sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of
resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the
sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be
connected.--She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness,
and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without
the atonement of a smile.  After dinner she would try her piano-forte.
She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an
opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their
favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his
hand-writing.--That would not do.--She shook her head, put the music
aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of
feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring
however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice
much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms.  On the
contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked
and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of
Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would
then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the
only happiness worth a wish.

"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said
she, "we will take long walks together every day.  We will walk to the
farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will
walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;
and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its
foundations as far as we are told they once reached.  I know we shall
be happy.  I know the summer will pass happily away.  I mean never to
be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall
divide every moment between music and reading.  I have formed my plan,
and am determined to enter on a course of serious study.  Our own
library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond
mere amusement.  But there are many works well worth reading at the
Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can
borrow of Colonel Brandon.  By reading only six hours a-day, I shall
gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which
I now feel myself to want."

Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;
though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her
to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work
in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and
virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she
remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared
she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of
Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy
tranquillity.  Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved
to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed
it.  But the resolution was made only to be broken.

Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was
fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out.  But at last a
soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's
wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's
arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in
the lane before the house.

The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an
exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had
advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the
hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned
towards it, Marianne calmly said,

"There, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand, "on that projecting
mound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby."

Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,

"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the
spot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?"--hesitatingly it
was said.--"Or will it be wrong?--I can talk of it now, I hope, as I
ought to do."--

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as HE is
concerned.  I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been
for him, but what they are NOW.--At present, if I could be satisfied on
one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not ALWAYS acting
a part, not ALWAYS deceiving me;--but above all, if I could be assured
that he never was so VERY wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied
him, since the story of that unfortunate girl"--

She stopt.  Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,

"If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy."

"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;--for not only is it
horrible to suspect a person, who has been what HE has been to ME, of
such designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--What in a
situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could
expose me to"--

"How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?"

"I would suppose him,--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle,
very, very fickle."

Elinor said no more.  She was debating within herself on the
eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till
Marianne were in stronger health;--and they crept on for a few minutes
in silence.

"I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last with a
sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant
than my own.  He will suffer enough in them."

"Do you compare your conduct with his?"

"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with
yours."

"Our situations have borne little resemblance."

"They have borne more than our conduct.--Do not, my dearest Elinor, let
your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure.  My
illness has made me think-- It has given me leisure and calmness for
serious recollection.  Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I
was perfectly able to reflect.  I considered the past: I saw in my own
behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last
autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of
kindness to others.  I saw that my own feelings had prepared my
sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me
to the grave.  My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by
myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the
time to be wrong.  Had I died,--it would have been self-destruction. I
did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such
feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder
that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for
atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once.  Had I
died,--in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my
friend, my sister!--You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my
latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!--How should
I have lived in YOUR remembrance!--My mother too! How could you have
consoled her!--I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself.  Whenever
I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing
indulged.  Every body seemed injured by me.  The kindness, the
unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful
contempt.  To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every
common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart
hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very
attention.--To John, to Fanny,--yes, even to them, little as they
deserve, I had given less than their due.  But you,--you above all,
above my mother, had been wronged by me.  I, and only I, knew your
heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any
compassion that could benefit you or myself.--Your example was before
me; but to what avail?--Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?
Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking
any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular
gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge
alone?--No;--not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had
believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or
friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting
only THAT heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for
whom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake."

Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly
that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well
deserved.  Marianne pressed her hand and replied,

"You are very good.--The future must be my proof.  I have laid down my
plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be
governed and my temper improved.  They shall no longer worry others,
nor torture myself.  I shall now live solely for my family.  You, my
mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will
share my affections entirely between you.  From you, from my home, I
shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix
in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my
heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser
duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance.  As for Willoughby--to
say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle.
His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or
opinions.  But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion,
by reason, by constant employment."

She paused--and added in a low voice, "If I could but know HIS heart,
everything would become easy."

Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or
impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all
nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as
reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself
leading to the fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her
anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief
points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his
repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
Marianne said not a word.--She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them.  A
thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
one.  She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,
unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered
her cheeks.

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

As Elinor thought over what Willoughby had said, she pitied his condition. Her mother and Colonel Brandon arrived one half hour later, and Elinor, "waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief." Marianne continued to mend, and on the following day Mrs. Dashwood confided to Elinor that Colonel Brandon was in love with Marianne; he had told her his feelings during their journey from Barton. He thought there was no hope for him and was "too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition, he could ever attach her." But Mrs. Dashwood felt that he was perfect for Marianne and was convinced that she would one day accept him. The Dashwoods returned to Barton in Colonel Brandon's carriage, and Marianne was determined to be as cheerful as possible. Once settled, she decided on a plan of study and repose involving many hours of reading and walking. One day when she and Elinor were walking together, Elinor told her sister about the interview with Willoughby. Marianne was upset, but, with a kiss of gratitude, only murmured, "Tell Mamma."

Marianne derives much of her sensibility and many of her romantic notions from her mother, whose emotions are often very much exaggerated. When Marianne is ill, Mrs. Dashwood is desperately anxious, for her habit of exaggeration persuades her that Marianne must already be dead. Thus, when she arrives at Cleveland, she has "no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor." But as Marianne recovers, so her mother becomes bright and cheerful and begins her match-making schemes all over again, for she "was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it." Marianne seems to have learned from her experience. She recognizes that she was the cause of her own anguish and illness. She sees how badly she has treated people and notes how differently she and Elinor have taken their disappointments.


Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former
favourite.  She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his
imputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy.  But the
feelings of the past could not be recalled.--Nothing could restore him
with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne.  Nothing
could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his
means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza.  Nothing
could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the
interests of Colonel Brandon.

Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from
himself--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence
of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion
would have been greater.  But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in
her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed
explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself.  Reflection
had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of
Willoughby's deserts;--she wished, therefore, to declare only the
simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his
character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy
astray.

In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began
voluntarily to speak of him again;--but that it was not without an
effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for
some time previously sitting--her rising colour, as she spoke,--and her
unsteady voice, plainly shewed.

"I wish to assure you both," said she, "that I see every thing--as you
can desire me to do."

Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing
tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's
unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence.  Marianne
slowly continued--

"It is a great relief to me--what Elinor told me this morning--I have
now heard exactly what I wished to hear."--For some moments her voice
was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness
than before--"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change.  I
never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later
I must have known, all this.--I should have had no confidence, no
esteem.  Nothing could have done it away to my feelings."

"I know it--I know it," cried her mother.  "Happy with a man of
libertine practices!--With one who so injured the peace of the dearest
of our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart
to be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive
conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband
ought to have felt."

Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change."

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

Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "Selfish?" in a
tone that implied--"do you really think him selfish?"

"The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning to
the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness.  It was
selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which
afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of
it, and which finally carried him from Barton.  His own enjoyment, or
his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."

"It is very true.  MY happiness never was his object."

"At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets what he has done.  And why
does he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards
himself.  It has not made him happy.  His circumstances are now
unembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only
that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself.
But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been
happy?--The inconveniences would have been different.  He would then
have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are
removed, he now reckons as nothing.  He would have had a wife of whose
temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always
necessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank
the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far
more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a
wife."

"I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne; "and I have nothing to
regret--nothing but my own folly."

"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Dashwood;
"SHE must be answerable."

Marianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each
felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might
weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first
subject, immediately continued,

"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the
story--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first
offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams.  That crime
has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present
discontents."

Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led
by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm
as friendship and design could unitedly dictate.  Her daughter did not
look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.

Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following
days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done;
but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear
cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time
upon her health.

Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each
other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their
usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to
Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward.  She had heard
nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans,
nothing certain even of his present abode.  Some letters had passed
between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and
in the first of John's, there had been this sentence:-- "We know
nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so
prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;" which
was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence,
for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.
She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.

Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and
when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his
mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary
communication--

"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married."

Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her
turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics.  Mrs. Dashwood,
whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively
taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's
countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,
alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to
bestow her principal attention.

The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense
enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance,
supported her into the other room.  By that time, Marianne was rather
better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the
maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far
recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an
inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.  Mrs. Dashwood
immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the
benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.

"Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?"

"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady
too, Miss Steele as was.  They was stopping in a chaise at the door of
the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the
Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up
as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss
Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and
inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss
Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's,
their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not
time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go
forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but
howsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you."

"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?"

"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since
she was in these parts.  She was always a very affable and free-spoken
young lady, and very civil behaved.  So, I made free to wish her joy."

"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?"

"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look
up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking."

Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself
forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.

"Was there no one else in the carriage?"

"No, ma'am, only they two."

"Do you know where they came from?"

"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy--Mrs. Ferrars told me."

"And are they going farther westward?"

"Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long.  They will soon be back again, and
then they'd be sure and call here."

Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than
to expect them.  She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and
was very confident that Edward would never come near them.  She
observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going
down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.

Thomas's intelligence seemed over.  Elinor looked as if she wished to
hear more.

"Did you see them off, before you came away?"

"No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any
longer; I was afraid of being late."

"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?"

"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was
always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented."

Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the
tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.
Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.
Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret
might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both
her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often
had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go
without her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a
similarity of thoughtfulness and silence.  Mrs. Dashwood feared to
hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation.  She now
found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of
herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly
softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness,
suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne.  She found that she
had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her
daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well
understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to
believe, or than it was now proved to be.  She feared that under this
persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her
Elinor;--that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more
immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led
her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering
almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater
fortitude.

Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an
unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,
and certainty itself.  She now found, that in spite of herself, she had
always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something
would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his
own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of
establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all.
But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking
flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.

That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in
orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the
living, surprised her a little at first.  But she soon saw how likely
it was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure
him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay.  They were
married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's.  What
had Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her
mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!

They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.--Delaford,--that
place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she
wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid.  She saw them
in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active,
contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with
the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her
economical practices;--pursuing her own interest in every thought,
courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every
wealthy friend.  In Edward--she knew not what she saw, nor what she
wished to see;--happy or unhappy,--nothing pleased her; she turned away
her head from every sketch of him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London
would write to them to announce the event, and give farther
particulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no
tidings.  Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault
with every absent friend.  They were all thoughtless or indolent.

"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?" was an inquiry which
sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.

"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to
hear from him again.  I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should
not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day."

This was gaining something, something to look forward to.  Colonel
Brandon must have some information to give.

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on
horseback drew her eyes to the window.  He stopt at their gate.  It was
a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself.  Now she could hear more;
and she trembled in expectation of it.  But--it was NOT Colonel
Brandon--neither his air--nor his height.  Were it possible, she must
say it must be Edward.  She looked again.  He had just dismounted;--she
could not be mistaken,--it WAS Edward.  She moved away and sat down.
"He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us.  I WILL be calm; I WILL
be mistress of myself."

In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the
mistake.  She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look
at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other.  She would have
given the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that
she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to
him;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their
own discretion.

Not a syllable passed aloud.  They all waited in silence for the
appearance of their visitor.  His footsteps were heard along the gravel
path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before
them.

His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for
Elinor.  His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if
fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.
Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of
that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be
guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him
her hand, and wished him joy.

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply.  Elinor's lips
had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over,
she wished that she had shaken hands with him too.  But it was then too
late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and
talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her
distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of
the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore
took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict
silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very
awful pause took place.  It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who
felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well.  In a
hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own
voice, now said,

"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?"

"At Longstaple!" he replied, with an air of surprise.-- "No, my mother
is in town."

"I meant," said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to inquire
for Mrs. EDWARD Ferrars."

She dared not look up;--but her mother and Marianne both turned their
eyes on him.  He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,
after some hesitation, said,--

"Perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean Mrs.--Mrs. ROBERT Ferrars."

"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!"--was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an
accent of the utmost amazement;--and though Elinor could not speak,
even HER eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder.  He
rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not
knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and
while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to
pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,

"Perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is
lately married to--to the youngest--to Miss Lucy Steele."

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor,
who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such
agitation as made her hardly know where she was.

"Yes," said he, "they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish."

Elinor could sit it no longer.  She almost ran out of the room, and as
soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first
she thought would never cease.  Edward, who had till then looked any
where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw--or even
heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie,
which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs.
Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted
the room, and walked out towards the village--leaving the others in the
greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so
wonderful and so sudden;--a perplexity which they had no means of
lessening but by their own conjectures.

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters discussed Willoughby. Mrs. Dashwood "was sorry for him; she wished him happy." But she could never like him as well as she had. Elinor declared that Willoughby was basically selfish and that he never could have been happy with Marianne because of the poverty they would have certainly been reduced to. The family settled down quietly at Barton Cottage, and Elinor was impatient for news of Edward: "She had heard nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new, of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode." Then one day their man-servant returned from an errand to Exeter and said, "I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married." He said that he had seen Lucy Steele in a chaise at the door of an inn and that Mr. Ferrars was "leaning back in it, but he did not look up." Lucy told the man she had married and would visit the Dashwoods shortly. That evening, the family was thoughtful and silent. Mrs. Dashwood realized that she had been so engrossed with Marianne's suffering that she had forgotten "that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude." Elinor longed for more news of Edward and hoped for Colonel Brandon's arrival to give it to her. One day a man rode up to the house on horseback and all approached the door to welcome whom they believed to be the colonel. However, the visitor, looking nervous and embarrassed, was Edward. After an awkward silence, Elinor asked him of the health of Mrs. Edward Ferrars. Edward blushed and informed the company that their groom had seen his brother Robert. All were astonished and Elinor "almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy." Edward, sensing her emotion, "fell into a reverie" and hurried out towards the village.

Note the difference in grammatical usage; in modern English, "each" is regarded as singular and should be followed by a singular possessive adjective. But Austen uses the plural in the expression "each felt their own error. Elinor shows herself to be as capable of emotion as her sister. But the feelings she allows people to see are quite appropriately happy ones.