No More Learning

"

"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.



CHAPTER 15


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.



CHAPTER 16


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.



CHAPTER 17


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.