Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came
into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their
time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such
frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little
leisure for serious employment.  Yet such was the case.  When Marianne
was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir
John had been previously forming, were put into execution.  The private
balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and
accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.  In every
meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and
familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly
calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the
Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of
Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,
in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her
affection.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment.  She only wished
that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to
suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne.  But Marianne
abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve;
and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves
illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a
disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions.
Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an
illustration of their opinions.

When he was present she had no eyes for any one else.  Every thing he
did, was right.  Every thing he said, was clever.  If their evenings at
the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest
of the party to get her a good hand.  If dancing formed the amusement
of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to
separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and
scarcely spoke a word to any body else.  Such conduct made them of
course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and
seemed hardly to provoke them.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left
her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them.  To her
it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and
ardent mind.

This was the season of happiness to Marianne.  Her heart was devoted to
Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with
her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it
possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her
present home.

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

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find
a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite
the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.
Willoughby was out of the question.  Her admiration and regard, even
her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his
attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might
have been more generally pleasing.  Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for
himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in
conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the
indifference of her sister.

Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect
that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.
This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from
him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by
mutual consent, while the others were dancing.  His eyes were fixed on
Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint
smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second
attachments."

"No," replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic."

"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist."

"I believe she does.  But how she contrives it without reflecting on
the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not.
A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of
common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define
and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself."

"This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is
something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is
sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions."

"I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor.  "There are
inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the
charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for.  Her
systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at
nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward
to as her greatest possible advantage."

After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,--

"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a
second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body?  Are those
who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the
inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be
equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?"

"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.
I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second
attachment's being pardonable."

"This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of
sentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements
of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they
succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous!  I
speak from experience.  I once knew a lady who in temper and mind
greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who
from an inforced change--from a series of unfortunate circumstances"--
Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,
and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not
otherwise have entered Elinor's head.  The lady would probably have
passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what
concerned her ought not to escape his lips.  As it was, it required but
a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender
recollection of past regard.  Elinor attempted no more.  But Marianne,
in her place, would not have done so little.  The whole story would
have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing
established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.

Sir John Middleton begins to hold balls at Barton Park. Willoughby and Marianne are always invited. They are completely absorbed in each other. Elinor tries to persuade Marianne to behave with more reserve, but without success. Marianne devotes herself to Willoughby and is no longer homesick for Norland. Elinor misses Norland because Edward is there. She forms a friendship with Colonel Brandon. Colonel Brandon talks with her about Marianne's not believing in second attachments. Elinor explains that Marianne has the romantic notion that second attachments are unpardonable, in spite of the fact that their own father had two wives and Marianne is the child of the second. Colonel Brandon does not wish to see Marianne outgrow her romantic prejudices. He says that she reminds him of a lady he used to know, who sadly was forced into a better acquaintance with the ways of the world. He breaks off his story abruptly. Elinor guesses that he was in love with this woman and that the affair ended badly.

Analysis of Chapters I-XI. The theme of "sense"  versus "sensibility"  is introduced in the characters of Elinor and Marianne. Each is a foil, or contrast, to the other. Elinor is sensible, practical, and cautious , while Marianne is romantic and impetuous. The dividing line, however, is not absolute, and the sisters do have qualities in common: both have loving hearts and intelligence. But their ways of responding to the world, to other people, and to the trials and tribulations of their lives, are different. Both Marianne  and her mother , being full of "sensibility," are incapable of feeling any close attachment to a person without declaring it to be love. Marianne accuses Elinor of being cold-hearted because Elinor talks of liking and esteeming Edward. But in fact, Elinor, in keeping her feelings reserved until she is sure that Edward returns them, is showing a prudence  that her mother and sister lack. Marianne's lack of prudence and care for herself is symbolized by her venturing out in uncertain weather and taking a "false step" that makes her fall over. She is rescued by Willoughby. While on one hand his actions are admirable and appear heroic to Marianne, they can also be seen as taking advantage of a young girl's vulnerability at a moment of weakness. This is exactly what he proceeds to do on an emotional level in future chapters. He selfishly pursues the attraction he feels for Marianne without taking due care of her feelings. Marianne, lacking her sister's practicality in relationships, takes no care to find out what Willoughby's intentions are or whether he is free to marry her. She simply trusts to her heart's promptings and openly returns Willoughby's apparent affection. Marianne and Elinor respond to emotional stress very differently. After the family's move to Barton Cottage, Marianne expects Elinor to sink into dejection because she is missing Edward, and she also expects Edward to visit Elinor at Barton soon after the family's arrival there. On both accounts she is disappointed, because Elinor and Edward are more cautious with their feelings than is Marianne. Elinor does not yet know Edward's true feelings for her, and Edward holds back from making any declaration. Elinor and Edward are careful of their own hearts as well as of other people's, in a way that Marianne is not. A contrast is drawn between Marianne's two admirers, Colonel Brandon and Willoughby. While Colonel Brandon treats everyone with respect, Willoughby speaks slightingly of Colonel Brandon, apparently with a desire to amuse. While Colonel Brandon keeps his feelings for Marianne largely hidden, Willoughby admires her as openly as she admires him. At this point, Willoughby appears to resemble Marianne in being a person of "sensibility," sharing her strong passions and opinions about music, literature, and people. It remains to be seen whether he shares Marianne's loving and constant heart. This is a source of suspense in the novel and reflects a common theme in Austen's work: the epistemological question of how one person can know another. What is certain at this point in the novel is that Willoughby perfectly fulfils Marianne's fantasy of her ideal husband. She says in Chapter III, "I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Willoughby is this man, and her enchantment with him makes her overlook the more solid qualities of Colonel Brandon, whom she characterizes as old and lacking in "spirit" and "fire". One of the major themes of the novel, primogeniture and inheritance, is introduced from the novel's beginning. Primogeniture is the tradition by which the first-born offspring inherits the entire estate of a parent. In practice, this is usually male-line primogeniture; hence, if the offspring of a marriage are all daughters, then the estate passes to the nearest male relative. The novel reflects the extreme importance of primogeniture in the society of Austen's time. It defined a person's life, prospects, and choice of marriage partner. The Dashwood women are reduced to genteel poverty simply because they are female. After Henry Dashwood's death, through the whim of "the old Gentleman" backed up by male-line primogeniture, Norland Park goes to Henry's son John. This is in spite of the fact that John does not need more wealth and yet the Dashwood women are in severe need after the death of their father. The Dashwood women are reliant on the charity of John, which is not forthcoming because of the meanness of John's wife Fanny. Their next hope, and the only way out of their predicament, is that the Dashwood daughters will make a good marriage. Primogeniture also plays a large part in the fortunes of Edward Ferrars, who at the novel's beginning is the eldest son of a rich man, and therefore a good marriage prospect. Old Mr. Ferrars left all his wealth to his wife, and Mrs. Ferrars can choose where it goes after her. Old Mr. Ferrars was evidently not influenced by the tradition of male-line primogeniture that afflicted the old Gentleman. Although primogeniture can be liberating in that it can set a man up in wealth for the rest of his life, it can also be tyrannical and restrictive. Edward Ferrars cannot marry whom he chooses; if he displeases his mother through his choice of wife, he risks being disinherited. When Mrs. Ferrars finds out that Edward is engaged to the penniless Lucy Steele, she does indeed disinherit him. This, in principle, liberates Edward to marry whom he wishes, though in practice, it would not be possible for him to marry anyone because he could not afford to support them. Edward is only rescued by his fortunate association with his wealthy benefactor, Colonel Brandon, who gives him a living. A deliberate contrast is drawn between two parallel sets of benefactor/beneficiary relationships: Willoughby and his elderly female relative Mrs. Smith, and Edward and Mrs. Ferrars. But there is an important difference. While Mrs. Ferrars disinherits Edward from avaricious motives, Willoughby's elderly relative later disinherits Willoughby on moral grounds, because she disapproves of his irresponsible liaison with Colonel Brandon's daughter. Whereas Edward is liberated from the influence of a malign mother, Willoughby deserts the influence of a benign and morally upright woman. Austen appears to be suggesting that the leverage of inheritance can be used for good or evil ends, and that losing an inheritance can be spiritually liberating  or spiritually tragic. Another theme of the novel is familial duty. Austen shows that relatedness does not necessarily equate with familial duty. Though it is clear that John Dashwood has a moral duty to look after his stepmother and half-sisters after the death of his father, he is easily persuaded by his selfish wife that he has no duty at all to them. As it transpires, a distant relative, Sir John Middleton, is far more generous to the women than is John Dashwood. The gap between the expectation of how a character should act from the moral point of view and how they do act is typical of Austen's irony. The irony is underscored by the narrator's tongue-in-cheek summary of John's intentions at the end of Chapter II: "he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out. So warped has John's moral perspective become as a result of his wife's influence, that he is able to conclude that it would be wrong to help the Dashwood women at all. The symbolism of hunting, which pervades the novel, is introduced in this section. The reader's first sight of Willoughby as he appears just in time to rescue Marianne is as he is out shooting game with his dogs. Just as Willoughby hunts animals, he also hunts Marianne; while he does not kill her, he does do great harm to her emotional well-being. In hunting as in love, Willoughby is a predator


As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the
latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of
all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,
surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both.  Marianne told her,
with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one
that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was
exactly calculated to carry a woman.  Without considering that it was
not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter
her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the
servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable
to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and
told her sister of it in raptures.

"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,"
she added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day.  You shall
share its use with me.  Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the
delight of a gallop on some of these downs."

Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to
comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for
some time she refused to submit to them.  As to an additional servant,
the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to
it; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the
park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient.  Elinor then
ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a
man so little, or at least so lately known to her.  This was too much.

"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very
little of Willoughby.  I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the
world, except yourself and mama.  It is not time or opportunity that is
to determine intimacy;--it is disposition alone.  Seven years would be
insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven
days are more than enough for others.  I should hold myself guilty of
greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from
Willoughby.  Of John I know very little, though we have lived together
for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed."

Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more.  She knew her
sister's temper.  Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach
her the more to her own opinion.  But by an appeal to her affection for
her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent
mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she
consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly
subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent
kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw
him next, that it must be declined.

She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the
cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to
him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his
present.  The reasons for this alteration were at the same time
related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side
impossible.  His concern however was very apparent; and after
expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,--"But,
Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now.  I
shall keep it only till you can claim it.  When you leave Barton to
form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall
receive you."

This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the
sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her
sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so
decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between
them.  From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each
other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or
any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover
it by accident.

Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this
matter in a still clearer light.  Willoughby had spent the preceding
evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour
with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations,
which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest
sister, when they were next by themselves.

"Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about
Marianne.  I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon."

"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first
met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I
believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round
her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great
uncle."

"But indeed this is quite another thing.  I am sure they will be
married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair."

"Take care, Margaret.  It may be only the hair of some great uncle of
HIS."

"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I
saw him cut it off.  Last night after tea, when you and mama went out
of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could
be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took
up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all
tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of
white paper; and put it into his pocket-book."

For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not
withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance
was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.

Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory
to her sister.  When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the
park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular
favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,
Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not
tell, may I, Elinor?"

This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.
But the effort was painful.  She was convinced that Margaret had fixed
on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a
standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.

Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good
to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to
Margaret,

"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to
repeat them."

"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you
who told me of it yourself."

This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly
pressed to say something more.

"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs.
Jennings.  "What is the gentleman's name?"

"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know
where he is too."

"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be
sure.  He is the curate of the parish I dare say."

"No, THAT he is not.  He is of no profession at all."

"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is
an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in
existence."

"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such
a man once, and his name begins with an F."

Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this
moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the
interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her
ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as
delighted her husband and mother.  The idea however started by her, was
immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion
mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of
rain by both of them.  Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked
Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of
different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground.  But not so
easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.

A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a
very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a
brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not
be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders
on that head.  The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and
Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed
to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at
least, twice every summer for the last ten years.  They contained a
noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the
morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages
only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a
complete party of pleasure.

To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,
considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the
last fortnight;--and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was
persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.

Elinor is surprised to hear that Marianne has accepted the gift of a horse from Willoughby. Elinor thinks it improper to accept such a present from a man of whom she knows little, but Marianne insists that she knows him intimately in spite of their short acquaintance. Marianne does give way, however, on the issue of the expense to her family, and agrees to decline the gift. Marianne and Willoughby seem so close that even Elinor believes they must be secretly engaged. Margaret tells Elinor that Willoughby begged a lock of Marianne's hair, which she granted. Margaret indiscreetly reveals to Mrs. Jennings that Elinor likes a young man, though she refuses to say who it is. Elinor is mortified


Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from
what Elinor had expected.  She was prepared to be wet through,
fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for
they did not go at all.

By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they
were to breakfast.  The morning was rather favourable, though it had
rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,
and the sun frequently appeared.  They were all in high spirits and
good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the
greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.

While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in.  Among the
rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the
direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.

"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John.

Nobody could tell.

"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton.  "It must be
something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my
breakfast table so suddenly."

In about five minutes he returned.

"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he
entered the room.

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."

"Was it from Avignon?  I hope it is not to say that your sister is
worse."

"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."

"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a
letter of business?  Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear
the truth of it."

"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said
Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.

"No, indeed, it is not."

"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel.  And I hope she is well."

"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little.

"Oh! you know who I mean."

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton,
"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which
requires my immediate attendance in town."

"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings.  "What can you have to do in town at
this time of year?"

"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so
agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence
is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."

What a blow upon them all was this!

"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said
Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"

He shook his head.

"We must go," said Sir John.--"It shall not be put off when we are so
near it.  You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all."

"I wish it could be so easily settled.  But it is not in my power to
delay my journey for one day!"

"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs.
Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."

"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to
defer your journey till our return."

"I cannot afford to lose ONE hour."--

Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There
are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure.  Brandon is one of
them.  He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this
trick for getting out of it.  I would lay fifty guineas the letter was
of his own writing."

"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of
old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything.  But,
however, I hope you will think better of it.  Consider, here are the
two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked
up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his
usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."

Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of
disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be
unavoidable.

"Well, then, when will you come back again?"

"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as
you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to
Whitwell till you return."

"You are very obliging.  But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in
my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."

"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John.  "If he is not here
by the end of the week, I shall go after him."

"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may
find out what his business is."

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns.  I suppose it is
something he is ashamed of."

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.

"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John.

"No. Only to Honiton.  I shall then go post."

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey.  But you
had better change your mind."

"I assure you it is not in my power."

He then took leave of the whole party.

"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this
winter, Miss Dashwood?"

"I am afraid, none at all."

"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to
do."

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what
you are going about."

He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.

The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto
restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and
again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.

"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings
exultingly.

"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.

"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."

"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.

"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have
heard of her before.  She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a
very near relation.  We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the
young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,
"She is his natural daughter."

"Indeed!"

"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare.  I dare say the Colonel
will leave her all his fortune."

When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret
on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as
they were all got together, they must do something by way of being
happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although
happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a
tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country.  The
carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never
looked happier than when she got into it.  He drove through the park
very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them
was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return
of all the rest.  They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said
only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others
went on the downs.

It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that
every body should be extremely merry all day long.  Some more of the
Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly
twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.
Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.
Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long
seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to
Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in
spite of all your tricks.  I know where you spent the morning."

Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?"--

"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my
curricle?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined
to find out WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss
Marianne.  It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,
I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when
I was there six years ago."

Marianne turned away in great confusion.  Mrs. Jennings laughed
heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they
had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.
Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that
they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in
walking about the garden and going all over the house.

Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely
that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house
while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest
acquaintance.

As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;
and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance
related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true.  Marianne was quite angry
with her for doubting it.

"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we
did not see the house?  Is not it what you have often wished to do
yourself?"

"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with
no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."

"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew
that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to
have any other companion.  I never spent a pleasanter morning in my
life."

"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment
does not always evince its propriety."

"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if
there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been
sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting
wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."

"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very
impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of
your own conduct?"

"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of
impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.
I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation.  I
am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs.
Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house.  They will one day be Mr.
Willoughby's, and--"

"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be
justified in what you have done."

She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;
and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her
sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS
rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted
particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure
you.--There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice
comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would
be delightful.  It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides.  On
one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a
beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church
and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so
often admired.  I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be
more forlorn than the furniture,--but if it were newly fitted up--a
couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the
pleasantest summer-rooms in England."

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

An outing is planned to the house of a relative of Colonel Brandon. The party consists of the Dashwood sisters, Willoughby, Sir John and Lady Middleton, Colonel Brandon, and Mrs. Jennings. But the visit is called off suddenly when Colonel Brandon receives a letter that means he has to leave for town at once. Willoughby mutters to Marianne that Colonel Brandon has invented this excuse to avoid a pleasure trip. Mrs. Jennings speculates that the Colonel's sudden departure is to do with Miss Williams, whom she believes to be the Colonel's illegitimate daughter. Not wanting to waste an opportunity for a social event, Sir John organizes a carriage drive. Marianne and Willoughby disappear in Willoughby's carriage and return later than everyone else. At dinner, Mrs. Jennings says that she knows that Marianne and Willoughby went to see the house that Marianne will live in one day, Allenham Court. Elinor thinks it improper for them to have visited the house while Mrs. Smith is still living there


The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his
steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the
wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great
wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all
the comings and goings of all their acquaintance.  She wondered, with
little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must
be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could
have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape
them all.

"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she.
"I could see it in his face.  Poor man!  I am afraid his circumstances
may be bad.  The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two
thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved.  I do
think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can
it be?  I wonder whether it is so.  I would give anything to know the
truth of it.  Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare
say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.  May be
she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a
notion she is always rather sickly.  I would lay any wager it is about
Miss Williams.  It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his
circumstances NOW, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must
have cleared the estate by this time.  I wonder what it can be!  May be
his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.  His setting
off in such a hurry seems very like it.  Well, I wish him out of all
his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain."

So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings.  Her opinion varying with every
fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.
Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel
Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away,
which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the
circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or
variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of.  It was
engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on
the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them
all.  As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange
and more incompatible with the disposition of both.  Why they should
not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant
behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not
imagine.

She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in
their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason
to believe him rich.  His estate had been rated by Sir John at about
six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that
income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of
his poverty.  But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them
relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all,
she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their
general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind
of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her
making any inquiry of Marianne.

Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than
Willoughby's behaviour.  To Marianne it had all the distinguishing
tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the
family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother.  The
cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more
of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general
engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him
out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest
of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his
favourite pointer at her feet.

One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the
country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of
attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening
to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly
opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as
perfect with him.

"What!" he exclaimed--"Improve this dear cottage!  No. THAT I will
never consent to.  Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch
to its size, if my feelings are regarded."

"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be
done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."

"I am heartily glad of it," he cried.  "May she always be poor, if she
can employ her riches no better."

"Thank you, Willoughby.  But you may be assured that I would not
sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one
whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world.  Depend upon it
that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in
the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it
in a manner so painful to you.  But are you really so attached to this
place as to see no defect in it?"

"I am," said he.  "To me it is faultless.  Nay, more, I consider it as
the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I
rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in
the exact plan of this cottage."

"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said
Elinor.

"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing
belonging to it;--in no one convenience or INconvenience about it,
should the least variation be perceptible.  Then, and then only, under
such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at
Barton."

"I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage
of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your
own house as faultless as you now do this."

"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might
greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of
my affection, which no other can possibly share."

Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were
fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she
understood him.

"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time
twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited!  I never passed within
view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one
should live in it.  How little did I then think that the very first
news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country,
would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate
satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of
prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account
for.  Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered
voice.  Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house
you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood?  You would rob it of its simplicity by
imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance
first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by
us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance,
and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has
hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort
than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world
could possibly afford."

Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should
be attempted.

"You are a good woman," he warmly replied.  "Your promise makes me
easy.  Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy.  Tell me
that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever
find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will
always consider me with the kindness which has made everything
belonging to you so dear to me."

The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the
whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.

"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was
leaving them.  "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must
walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton."

He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.

Willoughby spends all his time with Marianne. Elinor is sure that he and Marianne are secretly engaged, and cannot understand why Marianne does not admit it. Willoughby is not rich, and Elinor thinks that this may be why he is postponing marriage. Willoughby talks passionately of how happy he has been at Barton Cottage, implying that it is Marianne who has made him so, and forbids Mrs. Dashwood ever to alter the house


Mrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and
two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from
being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her
mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the
night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly
satisfied with her remaining at home.

On their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and
servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that
her conjecture had been just.  So far it was all as she had foreseen;
but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her
to expect.  They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came
hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her
handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.
Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had
just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against
the mantel-piece with his back towards them.  He turned round on their
coming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the
emotion which over-powered Marianne.

"Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she
entered--"is she ill?"

"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced
smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I
am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!"

"Disappointment?"

"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you.  Mrs. Smith has
this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent
cousin, by sending me on business to London.  I have just received my
dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of
exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you."

"To London!--and are you going this morning?"

"Almost this moment."

"This is very unfortunate.  But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;--and her
business will not detain you from us long I hope."

He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of
returning into Devonshire immediately.  My visits to Mrs. Smith are
never repeated within the twelvemonth."

"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend?  Is Allenham the only house in the
neighbourhood to which you will be welcome?  For shame, Willoughby, can
you wait for an invitation here?"

His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only
replied, "You are too good."

Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise.  Elinor felt equal
amazement.  For a few moments every one was silent.  Mrs. Dashwood
first spoke.

"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you
will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here
immediately, because you only can judge how far THAT might be pleasing
to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question
your judgment than to doubt your inclination."

"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are of
such a nature--that--I dare not flatter myself"--

He stopt.  Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another
pause succeeded.  This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint
smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner.  I will not torment
myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is
impossible for me now to enjoy."

He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room.  They saw him
step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.

Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the
parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this
sudden departure occasioned.

Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's.  She thought of
what had just passed with anxiety and distrust.  Willoughby's behaviour
in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of
cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's
invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself,
greatly disturbed her.  One moment she feared that no serious design
had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate
quarrel had taken place between him and her sister;--the distress in
which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could
most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne's
love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.

But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's
affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest
compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability
not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a
duty.

In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were
red, her countenance was not uncheerful.

"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said she,
as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?"

"It is all very strange.  So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work
of a moment.  And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so
affectionate?  And now, after only ten minutes notice--Gone too without
intending to return!--Something more than what he owned to us must have
happened.  He did not speak, he did not behave like himself.  YOU must
have seen the difference as well as I.  What can it be?  Can they have
quarrelled?  Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept
your invitation here?"--

"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see
THAT.  He had not the power of accepting it.  I have thought it all
over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at
first seemed strange to me as well as to you."

"Can you, indeed!"

"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;--but
you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can--it will not satisfy YOU,
I know; but you shall not talk ME out of my trust in it.  I am
persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves
of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that
account is eager to get him away;--and that the business which she
sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him.
This is what I believe to have happened.  He is, moreover, aware that
she DOES disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present
confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself
obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and
absent himself from Devonshire for a while.  You will tell me, I know,
that this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no cavil,
unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair
as satisfactory at this.  And now, Elinor, what have you to say?"

"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.
Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings!  You had rather
take evil upon credit than good.  You had rather look out for misery
for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the
latter.  You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave
of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn.  And is
no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by
recent disappointment?  Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely
because they are not certainties?  Is nothing due to the man whom we
have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill
of?  To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though
unavoidably secret for a while?  And, after all, what is it you suspect
him of?"

"I can hardly tell myself.  But suspicion of something unpleasant is
the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed
in him.  There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of
the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be
candid in my judgment of every body.  Willoughby may undoubtedly have
very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.
But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at
once.  Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at
its being practiced by him."

"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the
deviation is necessary.  But you really do admit the justice of what I
have said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted."

"Not entirely.  It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they
ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith--and if that is the case, it must be
highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at
present.  But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us."

"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and
Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have
been reproaching them every day for incautiousness."

"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their
engagement I do."

"I am perfectly satisfied of both."

"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of
them."

"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly.  Has
not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last
fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future
wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?
Have we not perfectly understood each other?  Has not my consent been
daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate
respect?  My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement?  How
could such a thought occur to you?  How is it to be supposed that
Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave
her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his
affection;--that they should part without a mutual exchange of
confidence?"

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except ONE is in
favour of their engagement; but that ONE is the total silence of both
on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."

"How strange this is!  You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,
if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the
nature of the terms on which they are together.  Has he been acting a
part in his behaviour to your sister all this time?  Do you suppose him
really indifferent to her?"

"No, I cannot think that.  He must and does love her I am sure."

"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such
indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him."

"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this
matter as certain.  I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are
fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away.  If we
find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."

"A mighty concession indeed!  If you were to see them at the altar, you
would suppose they were going to be married.  Ungracious girl!  But I
require no such proof.  Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to
justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly
open and unreserved.  You cannot doubt your sister's wishes.  It must
be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect.  But why?  Is he not a man of
honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to
create alarm? can he be deceitful?"

"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.  "I love Willoughby,
sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more
painful to yourself than to me.  It has been involuntary, and I will
not encourage it.  I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his
manners this morning;--he did not speak like himself, and did not
return your kindness with any cordiality.  But all this may be
explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed.  He
had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest
affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.
Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware
that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for
some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by
our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed.  In such a
case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more
to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general
character;--but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct
on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself,
or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."

"You speak very properly.  Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be
suspected.  Though WE have not known him long, he is no stranger in
this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?
Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,
it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging
everything to me at once: but this is not the case.  It is an
engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage
must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it
can be observed, may now be very advisable."

They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then
at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to
acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.

They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the
room and took her place at the table without saying a word.  Her eyes
were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then
restrained with difficulty.  She avoided the looks of them all, could
neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently
pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude
was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.

This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening.  She
was without any power, because she was without any desire of command
over herself.  The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby
overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most
anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they
spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings
connected with him.

Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor, and Margaret visit Lady Middleton. Marianne finds an excuse not to go. As Mrs. Dashwood and her party return home, Marianne rushes out of the parlour in tears and runs upstairs. Mrs. Dashwood finds Willoughby in the parlour, looking upset. He tells Mrs. Dashwood that he has to depart immediately for London on business, and admits that he has no intention of returning to Devon in the foreseeable future because Mrs. Smith invites him infrequently. Mrs. Dashwood, surprised that Willoughby does not seem to be considering his friendship with her own family, reminds him that he will always be welcome at her house. Willoughby replies evasively and leaves. Mrs. Dashwood believes that Mrs. Smith, on whom Willoughby is financially dependent, has learned of Willoughby's attachment to Marianne and disapproves because she plans to arrange a more favorable match for him. Elinor finds it understandable that Willoughby would want to conceal his engagement from Mrs. Smith, but cannot excuse him for also concealing it from them. Mrs. Dashwood declares that there is no need for words when Willoughby's actions have clearly told that he regards Marianne as his future wife. Elinor is suspicious about his and Marianne's silence on the matter, and thinks it may indicate that there is no engagement, but Mrs. Dashwood rebukes her for her lack of faith in Willoughby's honor. Marianne briefly joins the family at dinner, but bursts into tears and leaves the room


Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able
to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby.  She
would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next
morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than
when she lay down in it.  But the feelings which made such composure a
disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it.  She was awake the
whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it.  She got up with a
headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all
attempt at consolation from either.  Her sensibility was potent enough!

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about
the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment
and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.  She played
over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,
every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at
the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out
for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be
gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied.  She spent
whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice
often totally suspended by her tears.  In books too, as well as in
music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and
present was certain of giving.  She read nothing but what they had been
used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it
sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,
to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,
still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.
Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy.  But Mrs.
Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at
least satisfied herself.

"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our
letters himself from the post, and carries them to it.  We have already
agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it
could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through
Sir John's hands."

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a
motive sufficient for their silence.  But there was one method so
direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real
state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she
could not help suggesting it to her mother.

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or she
is not engaged to Willoughby?  From you, her mother, and so kind, so
indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.  It would be
the natural result of your affection for her.  She used to be all
unreserve, and to you more especially."

"I would not ask such a question for the world.  Supposing it possible
that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry
inflict!  At any rate it would be most ungenerous.  I should never
deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of
what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.  I know
Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not
be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make
the revealment of it eligible.  I would not attempt to force the
confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty
would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's
youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common
care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic
delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before
Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were
not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;--but
one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of
Shakespeare, exclaimed,

"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away
before we could get through it.  We will put it by, that when he comes
again...But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens."

"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise.  "No--nor many weeks."

Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of
confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.

One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was
prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of
wandering away by herself.  Hitherto she had carefully avoided every
companion in her rambles.  If her sisters intended to walk on the
downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the
valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be
found when the others set off.  But at length she was secured by the
exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.
They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,
for Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with
gaining one point, would not then attempt more.  Beyond the entrance of
the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and
more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first
coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they
stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the
distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had
never happened to reach in any of their walks before.

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;
it was a man on horseback riding towards them.  In a few minutes they
could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards
Marianne rapturously exclaimed,

"It is he; it is indeed;--I know it is!"--and was hastening to meet
him, when Elinor cried out,

"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken.  It is not Willoughby.
The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."

"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has.  His air, his
coat, his horse.  I knew how soon he would come."

She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from
particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,
quickened her pace and kept up with her.  They were soon within thirty
yards of the gentleman.  Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within
her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices
of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well
known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she
turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be
forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a
smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her
sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with
them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by
Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than
even Elinor herself.  To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward
and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness
which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.  On
Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a
lover ought to look and say on such an occasion.  He was confused,
seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither
rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by
questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.  Marianne
saw and listened with increasing surprise.  She began almost to feel a
dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by
carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a
contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.

After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries
of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London.  No,
he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

"A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same
county with Elinor without seeing her before.

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with
some friends near Plymouth.

"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor.

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne.

"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always
does at this time of the year.  The woods and walks thickly covered
with dead leaves."

"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I formerly
seen them fall!  How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven
in showers about me by the wind!  What feelings have they, the season,
the air altogether inspired!  Now there is no one to regard them.  They
are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as
possible from the sight."

"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead
leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood.  But
SOMETIMES they are."--As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a
few moments;--but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she,
calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley.  Look up
to it, and be tranquil if you can.  Look at those hills!  Did you ever
see their equals?  To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and
plantations.  You may see the end of the house.  And there, beneath
that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."

"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be
dirty in winter."

"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"

"Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before
me, I see a very dirty lane."

"How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.

"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here?  Are the Middletons pleasant
people?"

"No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more unfortunately
situated."

"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be so
unjust?  They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards
us have behaved in the friendliest manner.  Have you forgot, Marianne,
how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"

"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments."

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their
visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by
talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting
from him occasional questions and remarks.  His coldness and reserve
mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to
regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she
avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him
as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.

Marianne feeds her sorrow at Willoughby's departure. She is unwilling to eat properly, plays on the piano songs that they had sung together, and reads books they had read together. Willoughby does not write, though Mrs. Dashwood tries to find plausible excuses why he should not. Elinor suggests that Mrs. Dashwood ask Marianne directly if she is engaged, as Marianne has always been closest to her mother, but Mrs. Dashwood refuses on the grounds that such a question would cause Marianne distress. One day, Elinor and Marianne are out walking when they see a man on horseback riding towards them. Marianne is certain that it is Willoughby, but it turns out to be Edward Ferrars. Marianne greets Edward warmly, but is disappointed in the apparent coolness between him and Elinor. Marianne's consternation is reinforced when he reveals that unknown to them, Edward has been in Devon for two weeks, visiting friends near Plymouth. Elinor is annoyed at Edward's reserve, but masters her feelings and treats him politely


Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his
coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.
Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder.  He received
the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not
stand against such a reception.  They had begun to fail him before he
entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating
manners of Mrs. Dashwood.  Indeed a man could not very well be in love
with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and
Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like
himself.  His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his
interest in their welfare again became perceptible.  He was not in
spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was
attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.  The whole family
perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of
liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all
selfish parents.

"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she,
when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still
to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"

"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than
inclination for a public life!"

"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no
affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find
it a difficult matter."

"I shall not attempt it.  I have no wish to be distinguished; and have
every reason to hope I never shall.  Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced
into genius and eloquence."

"You have no ambition, I well know.  Your wishes are all moderate."

"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe.  I wish as
well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body
else it must be in my own way.  Greatness will not make me so."

"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne.  "What have wealth or grandeur
to do with happiness?"

"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do with
it."

"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness
where there is nothing else to give it.  Beyond a competence, it can
afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.  YOUR
competence and MY wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without
them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of
external comfort must be wanting.  Your ideas are only more noble than
mine.  Come, what is your competence?"

"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than THAT."

Elinor laughed.  "TWO thousand a year! ONE is my wealth! I guessed how
it would end."

"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said Marianne.
"A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller.  I am sure I am not
extravagant in my demands.  A proper establishment of servants, a
carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."

Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their
future expenses at Combe Magna.

"Hunters!" repeated Edward--"but why must you have hunters?  Every body
does not hunt."

Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."

"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody
would give us all a large fortune apiece!"

"Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary
happiness.

"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite
of the insufficiency of wealth."

"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be!  I wonder what I
should do with it!"

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.

"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.
Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help."

"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor, "and
your difficulties will soon vanish."

"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," said
Edward, "in such an event!  What a happy day for booksellers,
music-sellers, and print-shops!  You, Miss Dashwood, would give a
general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as
for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music
enough in London to content her.  And books!--Thomson, Cowper,
Scott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up
every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;
and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old
twisted tree.  Should not you, Marianne?  Forgive me, if I am very
saucy.  But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old
disputes."

"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy or
gay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking of
former times.  You are very right in supposing how my money would be
spent--some of it, at least--my loose cash would certainly be employed
in improving my collection of music and books."

"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
authors or their heirs."

"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it."

"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever
be in love more than once in their life--your opinion on that point is
unchanged, I presume?"

"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.  It is
not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."

"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not
at all altered."

"She is only grown a little more grave than she was."

"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me.  You are not
very gay yourself."

"Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh.  "But gaiety never
was a part of MY character."

"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should hardly
call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all she
does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but she
is not often really merry."

"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her
down as a lively girl."

"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said
Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or
other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or
stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the
deception originated.  Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,
without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge."

"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided
wholly by the opinion of other people.  I thought our judgments were
given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours.  This has
always been your doctrine, I am sure."

"No, Marianne, never.  My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of
the understanding.  All I have ever attempted to influence has been the
behaviour.  You must not confound my meaning.  I am guilty, I confess,
of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with
greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their
sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"

"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of
general civility," said Edward to Elinor.  "Do you gain no ground?"

"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.

"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I
am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.  I never wish to
offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I
am only kept back by my natural awkwardness.  I have frequently thought
that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I
am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"

"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said
Elinor.

"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.
"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or
other.  If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy
and graceful, I should not be shy."

"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse."

Edward started--"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"

"Yes, very."

"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring.  "Reserved!--how, in
what manner?  What am I to tell you?  What can you suppose?"

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to
understand what she means?  Do not you know she calls every one
reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as
rapturously as herself?"

Edward made no answer.  His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him
in their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.

Edward's reserve breaks down under the warmth of Mrs. Dashwood's welcome, though his spirits seem low. She asks him about his mother's plans for him, and he says he hopes she has given up her ambition for him to become distinguished in public life. Elinor and Marianne discuss the relationship of wealth to happiness. Though Elinor believes that wealth "has much to do with" happiness, Marianne romantically dismisses the importance of money , it can afford no real satisfaction. However, it turns out that Marianne's idea of "a competence" exceeds Elinor's idea of wealth, so both sisters believe that money is vital to happiness. The sisters go on to discuss with Edward the difficulty of knowing a person. Elinor says her impressions of someone often prove wrong. Edward says that he himself often appears uncaring about others, when he is merely shy in company. He is shocked to hear that Marianne believes him to be reserved, and he lapses into pensive silence


Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend.  His
visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own
enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect.  It was evident that he was
unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished
her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of
inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very
uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted
one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.

He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning
before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to
promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to
themselves.  But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour
door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself
come out.

"I am going into the village to see my horses," said he, "as you are
not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."

                    ***

Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding
country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the
valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation
than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had
exceedingly pleased him.  This was a subject which ensured Marianne's
attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of
these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had
particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You
must not enquire too far, Marianne--remember I have no knowledge in the
picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste
if we come to particulars.  I shall call hills steep, which ought to be
bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and
rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be
indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.  You must be
satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give.  I call it a
very fine country--the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine
timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug--with rich meadows
and several neat farm houses scattered here and there.  It exactly
answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with
utility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire
it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey
moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.  I know nothing of
the picturesque."

"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you
boast of it?"

"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation,
Edward here falls into another.  Because he believes many people
pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really
feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater
indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he
possesses.  He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own."

"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery
is become a mere jargon.  Every body pretends to feel and tries to
describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what
picturesque beauty was.  I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I
have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to
describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and
meaning."

"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the delight in
a fine prospect which you profess to feel.  But, in return, your sister
must allow me to feel no more than I profess.  I like a fine prospect,
but not on picturesque principles.  I do not like crooked, twisted,
blasted trees.  I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and
flourishing.  I do not like ruined, tattered cottages.  I am not fond
of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms.  I have more pleasure in a
snug farm-house than a watch-tower--and a troop of tidy, happy villages
please me better than the finest banditti in the world."

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her
sister.  Elinor only laughed.

The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained
thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.
She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,
his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait
of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.

"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried.  "Is that
Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some.  But I should
have thought her hair had been darker."

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt--but when she saw
how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought
could not be surpassed by his.  He coloured very deeply, and giving a
momentary glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister's hair.  The
setting always casts a different shade on it, you know."

Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise.  That the hair
was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;
the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne
considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must
have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.
She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and
affecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of
something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every
opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all
doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.

Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of
mind still more settled.  He was particularly grave the whole morning.
Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own
forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little
offence it had given her sister.

Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the
cottage, came to take a survey of the guest.  With the assistance of
his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name
of Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery
against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their
acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately
sprung.  But, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant
looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions,
extended.

Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to
dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.
On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor,
towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished
to engage them for both.

"You MUST drink tea with us to night," said he, "for we shall be quite
alone--and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a
large party."

Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity.  "And who knows but you may raise
a dance," said she.  "And that will tempt YOU, Miss Marianne."

"A dance!" cried Marianne.  "Impossible! Who is to dance?"

"Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.--What!
you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be
nameless is gone!"

"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were among
us again."

This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.  "And who
is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he
was sitting.

She gave him a brief reply.  Marianne's countenance was more
communicative.  Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning
of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him
before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round
her, and said, in a whisper, "I have been guessing.  Shall I tell you
my guess?"

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you."

"Certainly."

"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."

Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at
the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,

"Oh, Edward! How can you?--But the time will come I hope...I am sure
you will like him."

"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness
and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her
acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing
between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to
mention it.

Elinor wonders if Edward is still attracted to her, as he does not seem to be as affectionate as before. Elinor and Marianne discuss with Edward his attitude towards picturesque scenery, which was a topic of interest in Austen's day. Edward is not fashionably romantic in his views: he prefers flourishing trees to lightning-blasted ones, and takes no pleasure in seeing a ruined cottage. Marianne is disappointed by his lack of romantic sensibility. Marianne spots a ring on Edward's finger containing a lock of hair, and asks if it is his sister Fanny's. Edward, embarrassed, says that it is. However, both Elinor and Marianne secretly feel that the hair is Elinor's; Marianne believes it to have been a gift, while Elinor believes that Edward obtained it by trickery. Sir John Middleton and Mrs. Jennings visit, prompted by curiosity after hearing that the Dashwoods have a visitor. They tease Elinor about her mysterious admirer, whom they know from Margaret to have a name beginning with "F" but have not identified as Edward Ferrars