transcriber's note: the table of contents is not part of the original book. the illustration on page is missing from the book. the introduction ends abruptly. seems incomplete. [illustration: _mr. dashwood introduced him._--p. .] sense & sensibility by jane austen with an introduction by austin dobson illustrated by hugh thomson london: macmillan and co., limited new york: the macmillan company _first edition with hugh thomson's illustrations_ * * * * * contents introduction list of illustrations chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi chapter xvii chapter xviii chapter xix chapter xx chapter xxi chapter xxii chapter xxiii chapter xxiv chapter xxv chapter xxvi chapter xxvii chapter xxviii chapter xxix chapter xxx chapter xxxi chapter xxxii chapter xxxiii chapter xxxiv chapter xxxv chapter xxxvi chapter xxxvii chapter xxxviii chapter xxxix chapter xl chapter xli chapter xlii chapter xliii chapter xliv chapter xlv chapter xlvi chapter xlvii chapter xlviii chapter xlix chapter l * * * * * introduction with the title of _sense and sensibility_ is connected one of those minor problems which delight the cummin-splitters of criticism. in the _cecilia_ of madame d'arblay--the forerunner, if not the model, of miss austen--is a sentence which at first sight suggests some relationship to the name of the book which, in the present series, inaugurated miss austen's novels. 'the whole of this unfortunate business'--says a certain didactic dr. lyster, talking in capitals, towards the end of volume three of _cecilia_--'has been the result of pride and prejudice,' and looking to the admitted familiarity of miss austen with madame d'arblay's work, it has been concluded that miss austen borrowed from _cecilia_, the title of her second novel. but here comes in the little problem to which we have referred. _pride and prejudice_ it is true, was written and finished before _sense and sensibility_--its original title for several years being _first impressions_. then, in , the author fell to work upon an older essay in letters _à la_ richardson, called _elinor and marianne_, which she re-christened _sense and sensibility._ this, as we know, was her first published book; and whatever may be the connection between the title of _pride and prejudice_ and the passage in _cecilia_, there is an obvious connection between the title of _pride and prejudice_ and the _title of sense and sensibility_. if miss austen re-christened _elinor and marianne_ before she changed the title of _first impressions_, as she well may have, it is extremely unlikely that the name of _pride and prejudice_ has anything to do with _cecilia_ (which, besides, had been published at least twenty years before). upon the whole, therefore, it is most likely that the passage in madame d'arblay is a mere coincidence; and that in _sense and sensibility_, as well as in the novel that succeeded it in publication, miss austen, after the fashion of the old morality plays, simply substituted the leading characteristics of her principal personages for their names. indeed, in _sense and sensibility_ the sense of elinor, and the sensibility (or rather _sensiblerie_) of marianne, are markedly emphasised in the opening pages of the book but miss austen subsequently, and, as we think, wisely, discarded in her remaining efforts the cheap attraction of an alliterative title. _emma_ and _persuasion, northanger abbey_ and _mansfield park_, are names far more in consonance with the quiet tone of her easy and unobtrusive art. _elinor and marianne_ was originally written about . after the completion--or partial completion, for it was again revised in --of _first impressions_ (subsequently _pride and prejudice_), miss austen set about recasting _elinor and marianne_, then composed in the form of letters; and she had no sooner accomplished this task, than she began _northanger abbey_. it would be interesting to know to what extent she remodelled _sense and sensibility_ in - , for we are told that previous to its publication in she again devoted a considerable time to its preparation for the press, and it is clear that this does not mean the correction of proofs alone, but also a preliminary revision of ms. especially would it be interesting if we could ascertain whether any of its more finished passages, _e.g._ the admirable conversation between the miss dashwoods and willoughby in chapter x., were the result of those fallow and apparently barren years at bath and southampton, or whether they were already part of the second version of - . but upon this matter the records are mute. a careful examination of the correspondence published by lord brabourne in only reveals two definite references to _sense and sensibility_ and these are absolutely unfruitful in suggestion. in april she speaks of having corrected two sheets of 's and s,' which she has scarcely a hope of getting out in the following june; and in september, an extract from the diary of another member of the family indirectly discloses the fact that the book had by that time been published. this extract is a brief reference to a letter which had been received from cassandra austen, begging her correspondent not to mention that aunt jane wrote _sense and sensibility._ beyond these minute items of information, and the statement--already referred to in the introduction to _pride and prejudice_--that she considered herself overpaid for the labour she had bestowed upon it, absolutely nothing seems to have been preserved by her descendants respecting her first printed effort. in the absence of particulars some of her critics have fallen to speculate upon the reason which made her select it, and not _pride and prejudice_, for her début; and they have, perhaps naturally, found in the fact a fresh confirmation of that traditional blindness of authors to their own best work, which is one of the commonplaces of literary history. but this is to premise that she _did_ regard it as her masterpiece, a fact which, apart from this accident of priority of issue, is, as far as we are aware, nowhere asserted. a simpler solution is probably that, of the three novels she had written or sketched by , _pride and prejudice_ was languishing under the stigma of having been refused by one bookseller without the formality of inspection, while _northanger abbey_ was lying _perdu_ in another bookseller's drawer at bath. in these circumstances it is intelligible that she should turn to _sense and sensibility_, when, at length--upon the occasion of a visit to her brother in london in the spring of --mr. t. egerton of the 'military library,' whitehall, dawned upon the horizon as a practicable publisher. by the time _sense and sensibility_ left the press, miss austen was again domiciled at chawton cottage. for those accustomed to the swarming reviews of our day, with their babel of notices, it may seem strange that there should be no record of the effect produced, seeing that, as already stated, the book sold well enough to enable its putter-forth to hand over to its author what mr. gargery, in _great expectations_, would have described as 'a cool £ .' surely mr. egerton, who had visited miss austen at sloane street, must have later conveyed to her some intelligence of the way in which her work had been welcomed by the public. but if he did, it is no longer discoverable. mr. austen leigh, her first and best biographer, could find no account either of the publication or of the author's feelings thereupon. as far as it is possible to judge, the critical verdicts she obtained were mainly derived from her own relatives and intimate friends, and some of these latter--if one may trust a little anthology which she herself collected, and from which mr. austen leigh prints extracts--must have been more often exasperating than sympathetic. the long chorus of intelligent approval by which she was afterwards greeted did not begin to be really audible before her death, and her 'fit audience' during her lifetime must have been emphatically 'few,' of two criticisms which came out in the _quarterly_ early in the century, she could only have seen one, that of ; the other, by archbishop whately, the first which treated her in earnest, did not appear until she had been three years dead. dr. whately deals mainly with _mansfield park_ and _persuasion_; his predecessor professed to review _emma_, though he also gives brief summaries of _sense and sensibility_ and _pride and prejudice_. mr. austen leigh, we think, speaks too contemptuously of this initial notice of . if, at certain points, it is half-hearted and inadequate, it is still fairly accurate in its recognition of miss austen's supreme merit, as contrasted with her contemporaries--to wit, her skill in investing the fortunes of ordinary characters and the narrative of common occurrences with all the sustained excitement of romance. the reviewer points out very justly that this kind of work, 'being deprived of all that, according to bayes, goes "to elevate and surprise," must make amends by displaying depth of knowledge and dexterity of execution.' and in these qualities, even with such living competitors of her own sex as miss edgeworth and miss brunton (whose _self-control_ came out in the same year as _sense and sensibility_), he does not scruple to declare that 'miss austen stands almost alone.' if he omits to lay stress upon her judgment, her nice sense of fitness, her restraint, her fine irony, and the delicacy of her artistic touch, something must be allowed for the hesitations and reservations which invariably beset the critical pioneer. to contend, however, for a moment that the present volume is miss austen's greatest, as it was her first published, novel, would be a mere exercise in paradox. there are, who swear by _persuasion_; there are, who prefer _emma_ and _mansfield park_; there is a large contingent for _pride and prejudice_; and there is even a section which advocates the pre-eminence of _northanger abbey_. but no one, as far as we can remember, has ever put _sense and sensibility_ first, nor can we believe that its author did so herself. and yet it is she herself who has furnished the standard by which we judge it, and it is by comparison with _pride and prejudice_, in which the leading characters are also two sisters, that we assess and depress its merit. the elinor and marianne of _sense and sensibility_ are only inferior when they are contrasted with the elizabeth and jane of _pride and prejudice_; and even then, it is probably because we personally like the handsome and amiable jane bennet rather better than the obsolete survival of the sentimental novel represented by marianne dashwood. darcy and bingley again are much more 'likeable' (to use lady queensberry's word) than the colourless edward ferrars and the stiff-jointed colonel brandon. yet it might not unfairly be contended that there is more fidelity to what mr. thomas hardy has termed 'life's little ironies' in miss austen's disposal of the two miss dashwoods than there is in her disposal of the heroines of _pride and prejudice_. every one does not get a bingley, or a darcy (with a park); but a good many sensible girls like elinor pair off contentedly with poor creatures like edward ferrars, while not a few enthusiasts like marianne decline at last upon middle-aged colonels with flannel waistcoats. george eliot, we fancy, would have held that the fates of elinor and marianne were more probable than the fortunes of jane and eliza bennet. that, of the remaining characters, there is certainly none to rival mr. bennet, or lady catherine de bourgh, or the ineffable mr. collins, of _pride and prejudice_, is true; but we confess to a kindness for vulgar matchmaking mrs. jennings with her still-room 'parmaceti for an inward bruise' in the shape of a glass of old constantia; and for the diluted squire western, sir john middleton, whose horror of being alone carries him to the point of rejoicing in the acquisition of _two_ to the population of london. excellent again are mr. palmer and his wife; excellent, in their sordid veracity, the self-seeking figures of the miss steeles. but the pearls of the book must be allowed to be that egregious amateur in toothpick-cases, mr. robert ferrars (with his excursus in chapter xxxvi. on life in a cottage), and the admirably-matched mr. and mrs. john dashwood. miss austen herself has never done anything better than the inimitable and oft-quoted chapter wherein is debated between the last-named pair the momentous matter of the amount to be devoted to mrs. dashwood and her daughters; while the suggestion in chapters xxxiii. and xxxiv. that the owner of norland was once within some thousands of having to sell out at a loss, deserves to be remembered with that other memorable escape of sir roger de coverley's ancestor, who was only not killed in the civil wars because 'he was sent out of the field upon a private message, the day before the battle of worcester.' of local colouring there is as little in _sense and sensibility_ as in _pride and prejudice_. it is not unlikely that some memories of steventon may survive in norland; and it may be noted that there is actually a barton place to the north of exeter, not far from lord iddesleigh's well-known seat of upton pynes. it is scarcely possible, also, not to believe that, in mrs. jennings's description of delaford--'a nice place, i can tell you; exactly what i call a nice old-fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner!'--miss austen had in mind some real hampshire or devonshire country house. in any case, it comes nearer a picture than what we usually get from her pen. 'then there is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and everything, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along.' the last lines suggest those quaint 'gazebos' and alcoves, which, in the coaching days, were so often to be found perched at the roadside, where one might sit and watch the dover or canterbury stage go whirling by. of genteel accomplishments there is a touch in the 'landscape in coloured silks' which charlotte palmer had worked at school (chap, xxvi.); and of old remedies for the lost art of swooning, in the 'lavender drops' of chapter xxix. the mention of a dance as a 'little hop' in chapter ix. reads like a premature instance of middle victorian slang. but nothing is new--even in a novel--and 'hop,' in this sense, is at least as old as _joseph andrews_. * * * * * list of illustrations mr. dashwood introduced him _frontispiece_ his son's son, a child of four years old "i cannot imagine how they will spend half of it" so shy before company they sang together he cut off a long lock of her hair "i have found you out in spite of all your tricks" apparently in violent affliction begging her to stop came to take a survey of the guest "i declare they are quite charming" mischievous tricks drinking to her best affections amiably bashful "i can answer for it," said mrs. jennings at that moment she first perceived him "how fond he was of it!" offered him one of folly's puppies a very smart beau introduced to mrs. jennings mrs. jennings assured him directly that she should not stand upon ceremony mrs. ferrars drawing him a little aside in a whisper "you have heard, i suppose" talking over the business "she put in the feather last night" listening at the door both gained considerable amusement "of one thing i may assure you" showing her child to the housekeeper the gardener's lamentations opened a window-shutter "i entreat you to stay" "i was formally dismissed" "i have entered many a shop to avoid your sight" "and see how the children go on" "i suppose you know, ma'am, that mr. ferrars is married" it _was_ edward "everything in such respectable condition" * * * * * chapter i the family of dashwood had long been settled in sussex. their estate was large, and their residence was at norland park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. the late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. but her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew mr. henry dashwood, the legal inheritor of the norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. in the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old gentleman's days were comfortably spent. his attachment to them all increased. the constant attention of mr. and mrs. henry dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence. by a former marriage, mr. henry dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters. the son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. by his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. to him therefore the succession to the norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property, could be but small. their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life-interest in it. the old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. he was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew; but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. mr. dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son; but to his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. the whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. he meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece. mr. dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. but the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth. he survived his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters. his son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him mr. dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters. mr. john dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make them comfortable. his father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and mr. john dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them. [illustration: _his son's son, a child of four years old._] he was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was: he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. but mrs. john dashwood was a strong caricature of himself; more narrow-minded and selfish. when he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece. he then really thought himself equal to it. the prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity. "yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! it would be enough to make them completely easy. three thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience." he thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent. no sooner was his father's funeral over, than mrs. john dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants. no one could dispute her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in mrs. dashwood's situation, with only common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing. but in _her_ mind there was a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of immovable disgust. mrs. john dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of showing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it. so acutely did mrs. dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their brother. elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in mrs. dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. she had an excellent heart; her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught. marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to elinor's. she was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. she was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but prudent. the resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great. elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by mrs. dashwood it was valued and cherished. they encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction. the agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again and again. they gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future. elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert herself. she could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance. margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of marianne's romance, without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life. chapter ii mrs. john dashwood now installed herself mistress of norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors. as such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child. he really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider norland as their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to mrs. dashwood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted. a continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight, was exactly what suited her mind. in seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. but in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy. mrs. john dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his sisters. to take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. she begged him to think again on the subject. how could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so large a sum? and what possible claim could the miss dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount. it was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters? "it was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that i should assist his widow and daughters." "he did not know what he was talking of, i dare say; ten to one but he was light-headed at the time. had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child." "he did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear fanny; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. he could hardly suppose i should neglect them. but as he required the promise, i could not do less than give it; at least i thought so at the time. the promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. something must be done for them whenever they leave norland and settle in a new home." "well, then, _let_ something be done for them; but _that_ something need not be three thousand pounds. consider," she added, "that when the money is once parted with, it never can return. your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. if, indeed, it could be restored to our poor little boy--" "why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make great difference. the time may come when harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. if he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition." "to be sure it would." "perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one half. five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!" "oh! beyond anything great! what brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if _really_ his sisters! and as it is--only half blood! but you have such a generous spirit!" "i would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "one had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. no one, at least, can think i have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect more." "there is no knowing what _they_ may expect," said the lady, "but we are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can afford to do." "certainly; and i think i may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. as it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable fortune for any young woman." "to be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. they will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. if they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds." "that is very true, and, therefore, i do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind i mean. my sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. a hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable." his wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan. "to be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. but, then, if mrs. dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in." "fifteen years! my dear fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase." "certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. an annuity is a very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. you are not aware of what you are doing. i have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing. my mother was quite sick of it. her income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. it has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that i am sure i would not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world." "it is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied mr. dashwood, "to have those kind of yearly drains on one's income. one's fortune, as your mother justly says, is _not_ one's own. to be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's independence." "undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. they think themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. if i were you, whatever i did should be done at my own discretion entirely. i would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly. it may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses." "i believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case; whatever i may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. it will certainly be much the best way. a present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, i think, be amply discharging my promise to my father." "to be sure it will. indeed, to say the truth, i am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all. the assistance he thought of, i dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are in season. i'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. do but consider, my dear mr. dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it. altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that?--they will live so cheap! their housekeeping will be nothing at all. they will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! only conceive how comfortable they will be! five hundred a year! i am sure i cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. they will be much more able to give _you_ something." "upon my word," said mr. dashwood, "i believe you are perfectly right. my father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. i clearly understand it now, and i will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described. when my mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as i can. some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then." "certainly," returned mrs. john dashwood. "but, however, _one_ thing must be considered. when your father and mother moved to norland, though the furniture of stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it." "that is a material consideration undoubtedly. a valuable legacy indeed! and yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here." "yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house. a great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place _they_ can ever afford to live in. but, however, so it is. your father thought only of _them_ and i must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world to _them._" this argument was irresistible. it gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out. chapter iii mrs. dashwood remained at norland several months; not from any disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. but she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have approved. [illustration: "_i cannot imagine how they will spend half of it._"] mrs. dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. she doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than l would support her in affluence. for their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. his attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions. the contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions of mrs. dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at norland. this circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of mrs. john dashwood, a gentlemanlike and pleasing young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there. some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for edward ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother. but mrs. dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration. it was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that elinor returned the partiality. it was contrary to every doctrine of her's that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible. edward ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. he was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. he was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. his understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement. but he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished as--they hardly knew what. they wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. his mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day. mrs. john dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. but edward had no turn for great men or barouches. all his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. fortunately he had a younger brother who was more promising. edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of mrs. dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. she saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. he did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. she was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister. it was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother. "it is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike fanny is enough. it implies everything amiable. i love him already." "i think you will like him," said elinor, "when you know more of him." "like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "i feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love." "you may esteem him." "i have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love." mrs. dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. her manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. she speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate. no sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching. "in a few months, my dear marianne," said she, "elinor will, in all probability be settled for life. we shall miss her; but _she_ will be happy." "oh! mamma, how shall we do without her?" "my love, it will be scarcely a separation. we shall live within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. you will gain a brother--a real, affectionate brother. i have the highest opinion in the world of edward's heart. but you look grave, marianne; do you disapprove your sister's choice?" "perhaps," said marianne, "i may consider it with some surprise. edward is very amiable, and i love him tenderly. but yet--he is not the kind of young man; there is something wanting--his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which i should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. his eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. and besides all this, i am afraid, mamma, he has no real taste. music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. it is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. he admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. to satisfy me, those characters must be united. i could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. he must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was edward's manner in reading to us last night! i felt for my sister most severely. yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. i could hardly keep my seat. to hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!" "he would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. i thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him cowper." "nay, mamma, if he is not to be animated by cowper!--but we must allow for difference of taste. elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. but it would have broke _my_ heart, had i loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. mama, the more i know of the world, the more am i convinced that i shall never see a man whom i can really love. i require so much! he must have all edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. it is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. why should you be less fortunate than your mother? in one circumstance only, my marianne, may your destiny be different from her's!" chapter iv "what a pity it is, elinor," said marianne, "that edward should have no taste for drawing." "no taste for drawing!" replied elinor, "why should you think so? he does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and i assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. had he ever been in the way of learning, i think he would have drawn very well. he distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to edward which produced it. "i hope, marianne," continued elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. indeed, i think i may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, i am sure you could never be civil to him." marianne hardly knew what to say. she would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. at length she replied: "do not be offended, elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. i have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but i have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. i think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "i am sure," replied elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. i do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly." marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. "of his sense and his goodness," continued elinor, "no one can, i think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. the excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. you know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. but of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. he and i have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. i have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, i venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. his abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. at first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. at present, i know him so well, that i think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. what say you, marianne?" "i shall very soon think him handsome, elinor, if i do not now. when you tell me to love him as a brother, i shall no more see imperfection in his face, than i now do in his heart." elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. she felt that edward stood very high in her opinion. she believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make marianne's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. she knew that what marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. she tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "i do not attempt to deny," said she, "that i think very highly of him--that i greatly esteem, that i like him." marianne here burst forth with indignation-- "esteem him! like him! cold-hearted elinor! oh! worse than cold-hearted! ashamed of being otherwise. use those words again, and i will leave the room this moment." elinor could not help laughing. "excuse me," said she; "and be assured that i meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. believe them to be stronger than i have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion--the hope--of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. but farther than this you must not believe. i am by no means assured of his regard for me. there are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. in my heart i feel little--scarcely any doubt of his preference. but there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. he is very far from being independent. what his mother really is we cannot know; but, from fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and i am very much mistaken if edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth. "and you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "yet it certainly soon will happen. but two advantages will proceed from this delay. i shall not lose you so soon, and edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!" elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. she could not consider her partiality for edward in so prosperous a state as marianne had believed it. there was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. a doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. it would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. a more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. she knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. with such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for elinor to feel easy on the subject. she was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship. but, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. she took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of mrs. ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to _draw him in_, that mrs. dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. she gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations. in this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. it was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in devonshire. the letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. he understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. he earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her daughters to barton park, the place of his own residence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether barton cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. he seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. she needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. her resolution was formed as she read. the situation of barton, in a county so far distant from sussex as devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. to quit the neighbourhood of norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was its mistress. she instantly wrote sir john middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to show both letters to her daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent. elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance from norland, than immediately amongst their present acquaintance. on _that_ head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother's intention of removing into devonshire. the house, too, as described by sir john, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending a letter of acquiescence. chapter v no sooner was her answer dispatched, than mrs. dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. they heard her with surprise. mrs. john dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from norland. she had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into devonshire. edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, "devonshire! are you, indeed, going there? so far from hence! and to what part of it?" she explained the situation. it was within four miles northward of exeter. "it is but a cottage," she continued, "but i hope to see many of my friends in it. a room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, i am sure i will find none in accommodating them." she concluded with a very kind invitation to mr. and mrs. john dashwood to visit her at barton; and to edward she gave one with still greater affection. though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which it principally tended. to separate edward and elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show mrs. john dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match. mr. john dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. he really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable. the furniture was all sent around by water. it chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of marianne's. mrs. john dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling it hard that as mrs. dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture. mrs. dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished, and she might have immediate possession. no difficulty arose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her effects at norland, and to determine her future household, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested her, was soon done. the horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter. for the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of elinor prevailed. _her_ wisdom too limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their establishment at norland. the man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as lady middleton was entirely unknown to mrs. dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at barton park; and she relied so undoubtingly on sir john's description of the house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own. her eagerness to be gone from norland was preserved from diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be fulfilled. since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. but mrs. dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months at norland. he so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving money away. in a very few weeks from the day which brought sir john middleton's first letter to norland, every thing was so far settled in their future abode as to enable mrs. dashwood and her daughters to begin their journey. many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved. "dear, dear norland!" said marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when shall i cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home elsewhere! oh! happy house, could you know what i suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps i may view you no more! and you, ye well-known trees!--but you will continue the same. no leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe you no longer! no; you will continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade! but who will remain to enjoy you?" chapter vi the first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. but as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of barton valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. it was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. after winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. a small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it. as a house, barton cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. a narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. on each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. four bedrooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. it had not been built many years and was in good repair. in comparison of norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. they were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. it was very early in september; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation. the situation of the house was good. high hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. the village of barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. the prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. the hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them. with the size and furniture of the house mrs. dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "as for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. perhaps in the spring, if i have plenty of money, as i dare say i shall, we may think about building. these parlors are both too small for such parties of our friends as i hope to see often collected here; and i have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. i could wish the stairs were handsome. but one must not expect every thing; though i suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. i shall see how much i am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly." in the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to form themselves a home. marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room. in such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. sir john middleton was a good looking man about forty. he had formerly visited at stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him. his countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. he said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at barton park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. his kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game. he insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day. lady middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on mrs. dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day. [illustration: _so shy before company._] they were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. lady middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. but they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by showing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark. conversation however was not wanted, for sir john was very chatty, and lady middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home. on every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. in the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the others. an opportunity was soon to be given to the dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as sir john would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day. chapter vii barton park was about half a mile from the cottage. the ladies had passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from their view at home by the projection of a hill. the house was large and handsome; and the middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and elegance. the former was for sir john's gratification, the latter for that of his lady. they were scarcely ever without some friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. it was necessary to the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with such as society produced, within a very narrow compass. sir john was a sportsman, lady middleton a mother. he hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and these were their only resources. lady middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year round, while sir john's independent employments were in existence only half the time. continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the good spirits of sir john, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife. lady middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. but sir john's satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the better was he pleased. he was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the insatiable appetite of fifteen. the arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at barton. the miss dashwoods were young, pretty, and unaffected. it was enough to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her person. the friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. in showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his own manor. mrs. dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by sir john, who welcomed them to barton park with unaffected sincerity; and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. they would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very young nor very gay. he hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. he had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements. luckily lady middleton's mother had arrived at barton within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might imagine. the young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more. mrs. jennings, lady middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather vulgar. she was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in sussex, and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. marianne was vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards elinor to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery as mrs. jennings's. colonel brandon, the friend of sir john, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend, than lady middleton was to be his wife, or mrs. jennings to be lady middleton's mother. he was silent and grave. his appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his being in the opinion of marianne and margaret an absolute old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike. there was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as companions to the dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of lady middleton was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of colonel brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of sir john and his mother-in-law was interesting. lady middleton seemed to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except what related to themselves. in the evening, as marianne was discovered to be musical, she was invited to play. the instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be charmed, and marianne, who sang very well, at their request went through the chief of the songs which lady middleton had brought into the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it. marianne's performance was highly applauded. sir john was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation with the others while every song lasted. lady middleton frequently called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked marianne to sing a particular song which marianne had just finished. colonel brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. he paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste. his pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. she was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity required. chapter viii mrs. jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. she had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. in the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. she was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at barton decisively to pronounce that colonel brandon was very much in love with marianne dashwood. she rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the middletons' dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. it must be so. she was perfectly convinced of it. it would be an excellent match, for _he_ was rich, and _she_ was handsome. mrs. jennings had been anxious to see colonel brandon well married, ever since her connection with sir john first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl. the immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. at the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at marianne. to the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor. mrs. dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear mrs. jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age. "but at least, mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. colonel brandon is certainly younger than mrs. jennings, but he is old enough to be _my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. it is too ridiculous! when is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" "infirmity!" said elinor, "do you call colonel brandon infirm? i can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "my dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "mamma, you are not doing me justice. i know very well that colonel brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. he may live twenty years longer. but thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "perhaps," said elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. but if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, i should not think colonel brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_ ." "a woman of seven and twenty," said marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, i can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. in his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. it would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. in my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. to me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." "it would be impossible, i know," replied elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. but i must object to your dooming colonel brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "but he talked of flannel waistcoats," said marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. confess, marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" soon after this, upon elinor's leaving the room, "mamma," said marianne, "i have an alarm on the subject of illness which i cannot conceal from you. i am sure edward ferrars is not well. we have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. what else can detain him at norland?" "had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said mrs. dashwood. "i had none. on the contrary, if i have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when i talked of his coming to barton. does elinor expect him already?" "i have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must." "i rather think you are mistaken, for when i was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bed-chamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time." "how strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! but the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! how cold, how composed were their last adieus! how languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! in edward's farewell there was no distinction between elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. twice did i leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. and elinor, in quitting norland and edward, cried not as i did. even now her self-command is invariable. when is she dejected or melancholy? when does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?" chapter ix the dashwoods were now settled at barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. the house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their father. sir john middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed. their visitors, except those from barton park, were not many; for, in spite of sir john's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at their service, the independence of mrs. dashwood's spirit overcame the wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. there were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable. about a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of allenham, which issued from that of barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little of norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be better acquainted with it. but they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home. the whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. the high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did marianne and margaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. the weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their book, in spite of marianne's declaration that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off together. they gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears which had prevented their mother and elinor from sharing such delightful sensations. "is there a felicity in the world," said marianne, "superior to this?--margaret, we will walk here at least two hours." margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in their face. chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. one consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety,--it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate. they set off. marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the ground; and margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety. a gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of marianne, when her accident happened. he put down his gun and ran to her assistance. she had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. the gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill. then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour. elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression. had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of mrs. dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings. she thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. but this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. mrs. dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. his name, he replied, was willoughby, and his present home was at allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after miss dashwood. the honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain. his manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. marianne herself had seen less of his person than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. but she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. his person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her. every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. his name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded. sir john called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and marianne's accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of willoughby at allenham. "willoughby!" cried sir john; "what, is _he_ in the country? that is good news however; i will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on thursday." "you know him then," said mrs. dashwood. "know him! to be sure i do. why, he is down here every year." "and what sort of a young man is he?" "as good a kind of fellow as ever lived, i assure you. a very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in england." "and is that all you can say for him?" cried marianne, indignantly. "but what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? what his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" sir john was rather puzzled. "upon my soul," said he, "i do not know much about him as to all _that._ but he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer i ever saw. was she out with him today?" but marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of mr. willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "but who is he?" said elinor. "where does he come from? has he a house at allenham?" on this point sir john could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that mr. willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at allenham court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "yes, yes, he is very well worth catching i can tell you, miss dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in somersetshire besides; and if i were you, i would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. miss marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "i do not believe," said mrs. dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that mr. willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him._ it is not an employment to which they have been brought up. men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. i am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "he is as good a sort of fellow, i believe, as ever lived," repeated sir john. "i remember last christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down." "did he indeed?" cried marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "that is what i like; that is what a young man ought to be. whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "aye, aye, i see how it will be," said sir john, "i see how it will be. you will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor brandon." "that is an expression, sir john," said marianne, warmly, "which i particularly dislike. i abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are the most odious of all. their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." sir john did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied-- "ay, you will make conquests enough, i dare say, one way or other. poor brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, i can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." chapter x marianne's preserver, as margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. he was received by mrs. dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which sir john's account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. miss dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. marianne was still handsomer. her form, though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight. from willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. but when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay. it was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. she could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. they speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. their taste was strikingly alike. the same books, the same passages were idolized by each; or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. he acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. "well, marianne," said elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning i think you have done pretty well. you have already ascertained mr. willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. you know what he thinks of cowper and scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring pope no more than is proper. but how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? you will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." "elinor," cried marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? but i see what you mean. i have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. i have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; i have been open and sincere where i ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful:--had i talked only of the weather and the roads, and had i spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared." "my love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with elinor--she was only in jest. i should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." marianne was softened in a moment. willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. he came to them every day. to enquire after marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by marianne's perfect recovery. she was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. he was exactly formed to engage marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. his society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. they read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which edward had unfortunately wanted. in mrs. dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in marianne's; and elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. in hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and marianne could say in its support. marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong. [illustration: _they sang together._] her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as edward and willoughby. colonel brandon's partiality for marianne, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which mrs. jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of mr. willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of colonel brandon. she saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him indifferent. she liked him--in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. his manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. sir john had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion. perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by willoughby and marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits. "brandon is just the kind of man," said willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to." "that is exactly what i think of him," cried marianne. "do not boast of it, however," said elinor, "for it is injustice in both of you. he is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and i never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him." "that he is patronised by _you_," replied willoughby, "is certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself. who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as lady middleton and mrs. jennings, that could command the indifference of any body else?" "but perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and marianne will make amends for the regard of lady middleton and her mother. if their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust." "in defence of your _protégé_ you can even be saucy." "my _protégé_, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always have attractions for me. yes, marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty. he has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. i have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature." "that is to say," cried marianne contemptuously, "he has told you, that in the east indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are troublesome." "he _would_ have told me so, i doubt not, had i made any such inquiries, but they happened to be points on which i had been previously informed." "perhaps," said willoughby, "his observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins." "i may venture to say that _his_ observations have stretched much further than _your_ candour. but why should you dislike him?" "i do not dislike him. i consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice; who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year." "add to which," cried marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. that his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression." "you decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied elinor, "and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the commendation i am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid. i can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and, i believe, possessing an amiable heart." "miss dashwood," cried willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly. you are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will. but it will not do. you shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful. i have three unanswerable reasons for disliking colonel brandon; he threatened me with rain when i wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and i cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. if it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that i believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, i am ready to confess it. and in return for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever." chapter xi 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 shown; 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 minutiæ 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 enforced change--from a series of unfortunate circumstances--" here he stopped 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. chapter xii 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; mamma 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. [illustration: _he cut off a long lock of her hair._] 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. chapter xiii 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." [illustration: "_i have found you out in spite of all your tricks._"] "mr. willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to show 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 show 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. chapter xiv 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. chapter xv 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 mantelpiece with his back towards them. he turned round on their coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which overpowered 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." [illustration: _apparently in violent affliction._] "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 stopped. 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 shown 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 blamable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shown. 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 xvi 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. [illustration: _begging her to stop._] 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 xvii 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 a-piece!" "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 show 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--for 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. chapter xviii 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?" [illustration: _came to take a survey of the guest._] "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. chapter xix edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by mrs. dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at the height. his spirits, during the last two or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved--he grew more and more partial to the house and environs--never spoke of going away without a sigh--declared his time to be wholly disengaged--even doubted to what place he should go when he left them--but still, go he must. never had any week passed so quickly--he could hardly believe it to be gone. he said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. he had no pleasure at norland; he detested being in town; but either to norland or london, he must go. he valued their kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time. elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse for every thing strange on the part of her son. disappointed, however, and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications, which had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for willoughby's service, by her mother. his want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better knowledge of mrs. ferrars's disposition and designs. the shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother. the old well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child, was the cause of all. she would have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield, when mrs. ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. but from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her confidence in edward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at barton, and above all to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round his finger. "i think, edward," said mrs. dashwood, as they were at breakfast the last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. some inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it--you would not be able to give them so much of your time. but (with a smile) you would be materially benefited in one particular at least--you would know where to go when you left them." "i do assure you," he replied, "that i have long thought on this point, as you think now. it has been, and is, and probably will always be a heavy misfortune to me, that i have had no necessary business to engage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like independence. but unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my friends, have made me what i am, an idle, helpless being. we never could agree in our choice of a profession. i always preferred the church, as i still do. but that was not smart enough for my family. they recommended the army. that was a great deal too smart for me. the law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers in the temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs. but i had no inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved. as for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but i was too old when the subject was first started to enter it; and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as i might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. i was therefore entered at oxford and have been properly idle ever since." "the consequence of which, i suppose, will be," said mrs. dashwood, "since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades as columella's." "they will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as unlike myself as is possible. in feeling, in action, in condition, in every thing." "come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits, edward. you are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself must be happy. but remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their education or state. know your own happiness. you want nothing but patience--or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. how much may not a few months do?" "i think," replied edward, "that i may defy many months to produce any good to me." this desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to mrs. dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on elinor's feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue. but as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by seeking silence, solitude and idleness. their means were as different as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each. elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much solicitude on her account. such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no more meritorious to marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her. the business of self-command she settled very easily;--with strong affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. that her sister's affections _were_ calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction. without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to indulge meditation, elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough to think of edward, and of edward's behaviour, in every possible variety which the different state of her spirits at different times could produce,--with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. there were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments, conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was produced. her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross her memory, her reflection, and her fancy. from a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was roused one morning, soon after edward's leaving them, by the arrival of company. she happened to be quite alone. the closing of the little gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the door. amongst them were sir john and lady middleton and mrs. jennings, but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown to her. she was sitting near the window, and as soon as sir john perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heard at the other. "well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers. how do you like them?" "hush! they will hear you." "never mind if they do. it is only the palmers. charlotte is very pretty, i can tell you. you may see her if you look this way." as elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without taking that liberty, she begged to be excused. "where is marianne? has she run away because we are come? i see her instrument is open." "she is walking, i believe." they were now joined by mrs. jennings, who had not patience enough to wait till the door was opened before she told _her_ story. she came hallooing to the window, "how do you do, my dear? how does mrs. dashwood do? and where are your sisters? what! all alone! you will be glad of a little company to sit with you. i have brought my other son and daughter to see you. only think of their coming so suddenly! i thought i heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that it could be them. i thought of nothing but whether it might not be colonel brandon come back again; so i said to sir john, i do think i hear a carriage; perhaps it is colonel brandon come back again--" elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to receive the rest of the party; lady middleton introduced the two strangers; mrs. dashwood and margaret came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while mrs. jennings continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour, attended by sir john. mrs. palmer was several years younger than lady middleton, and totally unlike her in every respect. she was short and plump, had a very pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be. her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but they were much more prepossessing. she came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away. her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. he entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as long as he stayed. mrs. palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth. "well! what a delightful room this is! i never saw anything so charming! only think, mamma, how it is improved since i was here last! i always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to mrs. dashwood) but you have made it so charming! only look, sister, how delightful every thing is! how i should like such a house for myself! should not you, mr. palmer?" mr. palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the newspaper. "mr. palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does sometimes. it is so ridiculous!" this was quite a new idea to mrs. dashwood; she had never been used to find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with surprise at them both. mrs. jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. mrs. palmer laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every body agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise. "you may believe how glad we all were to see them," added mrs. jennings, leaning forward towards elinor, and speaking in a low voice as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different sides of the room; "but, however, i can't help wishing they had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they came all round by london upon account of some business, for you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was wrong in her situation. i wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!" mrs. palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm. "she expects to be confined in february," continued mrs. jennings. lady middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and therefore exerted herself to ask mr. palmer if there was any news in the paper. "no, none at all," he replied, and read on. "here comes marianne," cried sir john. "now, palmer, you shall see a monstrous pretty girl." he immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and ushered her in himself. mrs. jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if she had not been to allenham; and mrs. palmer laughed so heartily at the question, as to show she understood it. mr. palmer looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. mrs. palmer's eye was now caught by the drawings which hung round the room. she got up to examine them. [illustration: "_i declare they are quite charming_."] "oh! dear, how beautiful these are! well! how delightful! do but look, mama, how sweet! i declare they are quite charming; i could look at them for ever." and then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the room. when lady middleton rose to go away, mr. palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around. "my love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing. he made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. he then made his bow, and departed with the rest. sir john had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park. mrs. dashwood, who did not choose to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might do as they pleased. but they had no curiosity to see how mr. and mrs. palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. they attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good. but sir john would not be satisfied--the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. lady middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. mrs. jennings and mrs. palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield. "why should they ask us?" said marianne, as soon as they were gone. "the rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or with us." "they mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said elinor, "by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. the alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. we must look for the change elsewhere." chapter xx as the miss dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, mrs. palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. she took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "i am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between elinor and marianne, "for it is so bad a day i was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. we must go, for the westons come to us next week you know. it was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and i knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then mr. palmer asked me if i would go with him to barton. he is so droll! he never tells me any thing! i am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, i hope." they were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "not go to town!" cried mrs. palmer, with a laugh, "i shall be quite disappointed if you do not. i could get the nicest house in world for you, next door to ours, in hanover-square. you must come, indeed. i am sure i shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till i am confined, if mrs. dashwood should not like to go into public." they thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "oh, my love," cried mrs. palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room--"you must help me to persuade the miss dashwoods to go to town this winter." her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "how horrid all this is!" said he. "such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. it makes one detest all one's acquaintance. what the devil does sir john mean by not having a billiard room in his house? how few people know what comfort is! sir john is as stupid as the weather." the rest of the company soon dropt in. "i am afraid, miss marianne," said sir john, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to allenham today." marianne looked very grave and said nothing. "oh, don't be so sly before us," said mrs. palmer; "for we know all about it, i assure you; and i admire your taste very much, for i think he is extremely handsome. we do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. not above ten miles, i dare say." "much nearer thirty," said her husband. "ah, well! there is not much difference. i never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "as vile a spot as i ever saw in my life," said mr. palmer. marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "is it very ugly?" continued mrs. palmer--"then it must be some other place that is so pretty i suppose." when they were seated in the dining room, sir john observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "my dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. why did not you ask the gilberts to come to us today?" "did not i tell you, sir john, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? they dined with us last." "you and i, sir john," said mrs. jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "then you would be very ill-bred," cried mr. palmer. "my love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "do you know that you are quite rude?" "i did not know i contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. so there i have the whip hand of you." charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. it was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than mrs. palmer. the studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "mr. palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to elinor. "he is always out of humour." elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. his temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. it was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. it was the desire of appearing superior to other people. the motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "oh, my dear miss dashwood," said mrs. palmer soon afterwards, "i have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. will you come and spend some time at cleveland this christmas? now, pray do,--and come while the westons are with us. you cannot think how happy i shall be! it will be quite delightful!--my love," applying to her husband, "don't you long to have the miss dashwoods come to cleveland?" "certainly," he replied, with a sneer--"i came into devonshire with no other view." "there now,"--said his lady, "you see mr. palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." they both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "but indeed you must and shall come. i am sure you will like it of all things. the westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. you cannot think what a sweet place cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for mr. palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that i never saw before, it is quite charming! but, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "how charming it will be," said charlotte, "when he is in parliament!--won't it? how i shall laugh! it will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an m.p. but do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? he declares he won't. don't you, mr. palmer?" mr. palmer took no notice of her. "he cannot bear writing, you know," she continued; "he says it is quite shocking." "no," said he, "i never said any thing so irrational. don't palm all your abuses of languages upon me." "there now; you see how droll he is. this is always the way with him! sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world." she surprised elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like mr. palmer excessively. "certainly," said elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "well--i am so glad you do. i thought you would, he is so pleasant; and mr. palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters i can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to cleveland. i can't imagine why you should object to it." elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. she thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, mrs. palmer might be able to give some more particular account of willoughby's general character, than could be gathered from the middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from marianne. she began by inquiring if they saw much of mr. willoughby at cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "oh dear, yes; i know him extremely well," replied mrs. palmer;--"not that i ever spoke to him, indeed; but i have seen him for ever in town. somehow or other i never happened to be staying at barton while he was at allenham. mama saw him here once before, but i was with my uncle at weymouth. however, i dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. he is very little at combe, i believe; but if he were ever so much there, i do not think mr. palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. i know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. i am monstrous glad of it, for then i shall have her for a neighbour you know." "upon my word," replied elinor, "you know much more of the matter than i do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. i assure you i heard of it in my way through town." "my dear mrs. palmer!" "upon my honour i did. i met colonel brandon monday morning in bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "you surprise me very much. colonel brandon tell you of it! surely you must be mistaken. to give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what i should expect colonel brandon to do." "but i do assure you it was so, for all that, and i will tell you how it happened. when we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and i said to him, 'so, colonel, there is a new family come to barton cottage, i hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to mr. willoughby of combe magna. is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in devonshire so lately.'" "and what did the colonel say?" "oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment i set it down as certain. it will be quite delightful, i declare! when is it to take place?" "mr. brandon was very well i hope?" "oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "i am flattered by his commendation. he seems an excellent man; and i think him uncommonly pleasing." "so do i. he is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. mamma says _he_ was in love with your sister too. i assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "is mr. willoughby much known in your part of somersetshire?" said elinor. "oh! yes, extremely well; that is, i do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because combe magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable i assure you. nobody is more liked than mr. willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. she is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. however, i don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, i assure you; for i think you both excessively pretty, and so does mr. palmer too i am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night." mrs. palmer's information respecting willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her. "i am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued charlotte. "and now i hope we shall always be great friends. you can't think how much i longed to see you! it is so delightful that you should live at the cottage! nothing can be like it, to be sure! and i am so glad your sister is going to be well married! i hope you will be a great deal at combe magna. it is a sweet place, by all accounts." "you have been long acquainted with colonel brandon, have not you?" "yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. he was a particular friend of sir john's. i believe," she added in a low voice, "he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. sir john and lady middleton wished it very much. but mama did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise sir john would have mentioned it to the colonel, and we should have been married immediately." "did not colonel brandon know of sir john's proposal to your mother before it was made? had he never owned his affection to yourself?" "oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, i dare say he would have liked it of all things. he had not seen me then above twice, for it was before i left school. however, i am much happier as i am. mr. palmer is the kind of man i like." chapter xxi the palmers returned to cleveland the next day, and the two families at barton were again left to entertain each other. but this did not last long; elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wondering at charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at mr. palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before sir john's and mrs. jennings's active zeal in the cause of society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe. in a morning's excursion to exeter, they had met with two young ladies, whom mrs. jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her relations, and this was enough for sir john to invite them directly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at exeter were over. their engagements at exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and lady middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of sir john, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance--whose tolerable gentility even--she could have no proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at all. their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and mrs. jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put up with one another. as it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, lady middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day. the young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or unfashionable. their dress was very smart, their manners very civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture, and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that lady middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the park. she declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. sir john's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the miss dashwoods of the miss steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world. from such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned; elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of england, under every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. sir john wanted the whole family to walk to the park directly and look at his guests. benevolent, philanthropic man! it was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself. "do come now," said he--"pray come--you must come--i declare you shall come--you can't think how you will like them. lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! the children are all hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. and they both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and i have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more. you will be delighted with them i am sure. they have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the children. how can you be so cross as not to come? why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. _you_ are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related." but sir john could not prevail. he could only obtain a promise of their calling at the park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the miss steeles, as he had been already boasting of the miss steeles to them. when their promised visit to the park and consequent introduction to these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person. their manners were particularly civil, and elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to lady middleton. with her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight. fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of the miss steeles towards her offspring were viewed therefore by lady middleton without the smallest surprise or distrust. she saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. she saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. it suggested no other surprise than that elinor and marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing. "john is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking miss steele's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window--"he is full of monkey tricks." and soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "how playful william is!" [illustration: _mischievous tricks._] "and here is my sweet little annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes; "and she is always so gentle and quiet--never was there such a quiet little thing!" but unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. the mother's consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the miss steeles, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. she was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the miss steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. with such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. she still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till lady middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. she was carried out of the room therefore in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours. "poor little creatures!" said miss steele, as soon as they were gone. "it might have been a very sad accident." "yet i hardly know how," cried marianne, "unless it had been under totally different circumstances. but this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." "what a sweet woman lady middleton is!" said lucy steele. marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. she did her best when thus called on, by speaking of lady middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than miss lucy. "and sir john too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!" here too, miss dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any éclat. she merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly. "and what a charming little family they have! i never saw such fine children in my life. i declare i quite doat upon them already, and indeed i am always distractedly fond of children." "i should guess so," said elinor, with a smile, "from what i have witnessed this morning." "i have a notion," said lucy, "you think the little middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in lady middleton; and for my part, i love to see children full of life and spirits; i cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet." "i confess," replied elinor, "that while i am at barton park, i never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." a short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by miss steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, "and how do you like devonshire, miss dashwood? i suppose you were very sorry to leave sussex." in some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, elinor replied that she was. "norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added miss steele. "we have heard sir john admire it excessively," said lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister. "i think every one _must_ admire it," replied elinor, "who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do." "and had you a great many smart beaux there? i suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, i think they are a vast addition always." "but why should you think," said lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, "that there are not as many genteel young men in devonshire as sussex?" "nay, my dear, i'm sure i don't pretend to say that there an't. i'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in exeter; but you know, how could i tell what smart beaux there might be about norland; and i was only afraid the miss dashwoods might find it dull at barton, if they had not so many as they used to have. but perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. for my part, i think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. but i can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. now there's mr. rose at exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to mr. simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. i suppose your brother was quite a beau, miss dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?" "upon my word," replied elinor, "i cannot tell you, for i do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. but this i can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him." "oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have something else to do." "lord! anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux;--you will make miss dashwood believe you think of nothing else." and then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture. this specimen of the miss steeles was enough. the vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better. not so the miss steeles. they came from exeter, well provided with admiration for the use of sir john middleton, his family, and all his relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. and to be better acquainted therefore, elinor soon found was their inevitable lot, for as sir john was entirely on the side of the miss steeles, their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every day. sir john could do no more; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established friends. to do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their unreserve, by making the miss steeles acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars,--and elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to barton. "'twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said she, "and i hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. and i hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may have a friend in the corner already." elinor could not suppose that sir john would be more nice in proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for edward, than he had been with respect to marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since edward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite general attention. the letter f had been likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with elinor. the miss steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family. but sir john did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as miss steele had in hearing it. "his name is ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret." [illustration: _drinking to her best affections._] "ferrars!" repeated miss steele; "mr. ferrars is the happy man, is he? what! your sister-in-law's brother, miss dashwood? a very agreeable young man to be sure; i know him very well." "how can you say so, anne?" cried lucy, who generally made an amendment to all her sister's assertions. "though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well." elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. "and who was this uncle? where did he live? how came they acquainted?" she wished very much to have the subject continued, though she did not choose to join in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in her life, she thought mrs. jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. the manner in which miss steele had spoken of edward, increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his disadvantage. but her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of mr. ferrars's name by miss steele when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by sir john. chapter xxii marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the miss steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, elinor principally attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments. lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from miss dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every show of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless. "you will think my question an odd one, i dare say," said lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage--"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, mrs. ferrars?" elinor _did_ think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen mrs. ferrars. "indeed!" replied lucy; "i wonder at that, for i thought you must have seen her at norland sometimes. then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?" "no," returned elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of edward's mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity; "i know nothing of her." "i am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said lucy, eyeing elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons--i wish i might venture; but however i hope you will do me the justice of believing that i do not mean to be impertinent." elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. it was broken by lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation-- "i cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. i am sure i would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. and i am sure i should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you_; indeed, i should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable situation as i am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble _you._ i am sorry you do not happen to know mrs. ferrars." "i am sorry i do _not_," said elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to _you_ to know my opinion of her. but really i never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore i am a little surprised, i confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." "i dare say you are, and i am sure i do not at all wonder at it. but if i dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. mrs. ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time _may_ come--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be very intimately connected." she looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "good heavens!" cried elinor, "what do you mean? are you acquainted with mr. robert ferrars? can you be?" and she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "no," replied lucy, "not to mr. _robert_ ferrars--i never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon elinor, "to his eldest brother." what felt elinor at that moment? astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. she turned towards lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon. "you may well be surprised," continued lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for i dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and i am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. not a soul of all my relations know of it but anne, and i never should have mentioned it to you, if i had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and i really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about mrs. ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. and i do not think mr. ferrars can be displeased, when he knows i have trusted you, because i know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other miss dashwoods quite as his own sisters."--she paused. [illustration: _amiably bashful._] elinor for a few moments remained silent. her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude--"may i ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "we have been engaged these four years." "four years!" "yes." elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "i did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. he was under my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while." "your uncle!" "yes; mr. pratt. did you never hear him talk of mr. pratt?" "i think i have," replied elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "he was four years with my uncle, who lives at longstaple, near plymouth. it was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. i was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but i was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as i ought to have been. though you do not know him so well as me, miss dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." "certainly," answered elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of edward's honour and love, and her companion's falsehood--"engaged to mr. edward ferrars!--i confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really--i beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. we cannot mean the same mr. ferrars." "we can mean no other," cried lucy, smiling. "mr. edward ferrars, the eldest son of mrs. ferrars, of park street, and brother of your sister-in-law, mrs. john dashwood, is the person i mean; you must allow that i am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." "it is strange," replied elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that i should never have heard him even mention your name." "no; considering our situation, it was not strange. our first care has been to keep the matter secret. you knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning it." she was silent. elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. poor edward! it puts him quite out of heart." then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "to prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. it does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet i think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. i have had it above these three years." she put it into her hands as she spoke; and when elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being edward's face. she returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "i have never been able," continued lucy, "to give him my picture in return, which i am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! but i am determined to set for it the very first opportunity." "you are quite in the right," replied elinor calmly. they then proceeded a few paces in silence. lucy spoke first. "i am sure," said she, "i have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, i dare say. i shall have no fortune, and i fancy she is an exceeding proud woman." "i certainly did not seek your confidence," said elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that i may be depended on. your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if i express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. you must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety." as she said this, she looked earnestly at lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but lucy's countenance suffered no change. "i was afraid you would think i was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. i have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but i have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as i saw you, i felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. besides in the present case, i really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about edward's mother; and i am so unfortunate, that i have not a creature whose advice i can ask. anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for i am in constant fear of her betraying me. she does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and i am sure i was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when edward's name was mentioned by sir john, lest she should out with it all. you can't think how much i go through in my mind from it altogether. i only wonder that i am alive after what i have suffered for edward's sake these last four years. every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly meet above twice a-year. i am sure i wonder my heart is not quite broke." here she took out her handkerchief; but elinor did not feel very compassionate. "sometimes," continued lucy, after wiping her eyes, "i think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." as she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "but then at other times i have not resolution enough for it. i cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as i know the very mention of such a thing would do. and on my own account too--so dear as he is to me--i don't think i could be equal to it. what would you advise me to do in such a case, miss dashwood? what would you do yourself?" "pardon me," replied elinor, startled by the question; "but i can give you no advice under such circumstances. your own judgment must direct you." "to be sure," continued lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor edward is so cast down by it! did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at barton? he was so miserable when he left us at longstaple, to go to you, that i was afraid you would think him quite ill." "did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?" "oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. did you think he came directly from town?" "no," replied elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of lucy's veracity; "i remember he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near plymouth." she remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names. "did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated lucy. "we did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived." "i begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. poor fellow!--i am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. i heard from him just before i left exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to elinor. "you know his hand, i dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual. he was tired, i dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible." elinor saw that it _was_ his hand, and she could doubt no longer. this picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been edward's gift; but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete. "writing to each other," said lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. yes, i have one other comfort in his picture, but poor edward has not even _that._ if he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. i gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?" "i did," said elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before. she was mortified, shocked, confounded. fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no farther. after sitting with them a few minutes, the miss steeles returned to the park, and elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched. chapter xxiii however small elinor's general dependence on lucy's veracity might be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description. what lucy had asserted to be true, therefore, elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of mr. pratt was a foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and edward's visit near plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the miss steeles as to norland and their family connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself. her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations, soon arose. had edward been intentionally deceiving her? had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel? was his engagement to lucy an engagement of the heart? no; whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at present. his affection was all her own. she could not be deceived in that. her mother, sisters, fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. he certainly loved her. what a softener of the heart was this persuasion! how much could it not tempt her to forgive! he had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. in that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. his imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. she might in time regain tranquillity; but _he_, what had he to look forward to? could he ever be tolerably happy with lucy steele; could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her--illiterate, artful, and selfish? the youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty. if in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself. these difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the person by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief! as these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept for him, more than for herself. supported by the conviction of having done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother and sisters. and so well was she able to answer her own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that elinor was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object of her love, and that marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house. the necessity of concealing from her mother and marianne, what had been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of elinor's distress. on the contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation of edward, which would probably flow from the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt equal to support. from their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise. she was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be. much as she had suffered from her first conversation with lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more reasons than one. she wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what lucy really felt for edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to convince lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful. that lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it was plain that edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so confessedly and evidently important. and even sir john's joking intelligence must have had some weight. but indeed, while elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof. what other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that elinor might be informed by it of lucy's superior claims on edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? she had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival's intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince lucy that her heart was unwounded. and as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure. but it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded, though lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. such a thought would never enter either sir john or lady middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. they met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy. one or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording elinor any chance of engaging lucy in private, when sir john called at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine with lady middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two miss steeles. elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of lady middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally compliant, and marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise. the young ladies went, and lady middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. the insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of engaging lucy's attention to attempt it. they quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. the card-table was then placed, and elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. they all rose up in preparation for a round game. "i am glad," said lady middleton to lucy, "you are not going to finish poor little annamaria's basket this evening; for i am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. and we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then i hope she will not much mind it." this hint was enough, lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, "indeed you are very much mistaken, lady middleton; i am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or i should have been at my filigree already. i would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, i am resolved to finish the basket after supper." "you are very good, i hope it won't hurt your eyes:--will you ring the bell for some working candles? my poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, i know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though i told her it certainly would not, i am sure she depends upon having it done." lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child. lady middleton proposed a rubber of casino to the others. no one made any objection but marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "your ladyship will have the goodness to excuse _me_--you know i detest cards. i shall go to the piano-forte; i have not touched it since it was tuned." and without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument. lady middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never made so rude a speech. "marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am," said elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and i do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte i ever heard." the remaining five were now to draw their cards. "perhaps," continued elinor, "if i should happen to cut out, i may be of some use to miss lucy steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible i think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. i should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." "indeed i shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried lucy, "for i find there is more to be done to it than i thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear annamaria after all." "oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said miss steele. "dear little soul, how i do love her!" "you are very kind," said lady middleton to elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?" elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased lady middleton at the same time. lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. the pianoforte at which marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that miss dashwood now judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table. chapter xxiv in a firm, though cautious tone, elinor thus began. "i should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if i felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. i will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again." "thank you," cried lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for i was somehow or other afraid i had offended you by what i told you that monday." "offended me! how could you suppose so? believe me," and elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea. could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?" "and yet i do assure you," replied lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable. i felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. but i am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. if you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what i am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else i am sure." "indeed, i can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. mr. ferrars, i believe, is entirely dependent on his mother." "he has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, i could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. i have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but i love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. we must wait, it may be for many years. with almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but edward's affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of i know." "that conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your's. if the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed." lucy here looked up; but elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency. "edward's love for me," said lucy, "has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that i should be unpardonable to doubt it now. i can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on that account from the first." elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion. lucy went on. "i am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, i was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that i could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at longstaple than he used to be. i do not mean to say that i am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case i am sure i could not be deceived." "all this," thought elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us." "but what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have you none but that of waiting for mrs. ferrars's death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity?--is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth?" "if we could be certain that it would be only for a while! but mrs. ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to robert, and the idea of that, for edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures." "and for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason." lucy looked at elinor again, and was silent. "do you know mr. robert ferrars?" asked elinor. "not at all--i never saw him; but i fancy he is very unlike his brother--silly and a great coxcomb." "a great coxcomb!" repeated miss steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in marianne's music. "oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, i dare say." "no sister," cried lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are _not_ great coxcombs." "i can answer for it that miss dashwood's is not," said mrs. jennings, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men i ever saw; but as for lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes." [illustration: "_i can answer for it," said mrs. jennings._] "oh," cried miss steele, looking significantly round at them, "i dare say lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as miss dashwood's." elinor blushed in spite of herself. lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister. a mutual silence took place for some time. lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto-- "i will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed i am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned. i dare say you have seen enough of edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he can, and then through your interest, which i am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and i hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him norland living; which i understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while. that would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest." "i should always be happy," replied elinor, "to show any mark of my esteem and friendship for mr. ferrars; but do you not perceive that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? he is brother to mrs. john dashwood--_that_ must be recommendation enough to her husband." "but mrs. john dashwood would not much approve of edward's going into orders." "then i rather suspect that my interest would do very little." they were again silent for many minutes. at length lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh-- "i believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the engagement. we seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end. but you will not give me your advice, miss dashwood?" "no," answered elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated feelings, "on such a subject i certainly will not. you know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes." "indeed you wrong me," replied lucy, with great solemnity; "i know nobody of whose judgment i think so highly as i do of yours; and i do really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'i advise you by all means to put an end to your engagement with edward ferrars, it will be more for the happiness of both of you,' i should resolve upon doing it immediately." elinor blushed for the insincerity of edward's future wife, and replied, "this compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject had i formed one. it raises my influence much too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent person." "'tis because you are an indifferent person," said lucy, with some pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your judgment might justly have such weight with me. if you could be supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having." elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again. another pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and lucy was still the first to end it. "shall you be in town this winter, miss dashwood?" said she with all her accustomary complacency. "certainly not." "i am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened at the information, "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you there! but i dare say you will go for all that. to be sure, your brother and sister will ask you to come to them." "it will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do." "how unlucky that is! i had quite depended upon meeting you there. anne and me are to go the latter end of january to some relations who have been wanting us to visit them these several years! but i only go for the sake of seeing edward. he will be there in february, otherwise london would have no charms for me; i have not spirits for it." elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other less than they had done before; and elinor sat down to the card table with the melancholy persuasion that edward was not only without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on _her_ side would have given, for self-interest alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary. from this time the subject was never revived by elinor, and when entered on by lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness whenever she received a letter from edward, it was treated by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself. the visit of the miss steeles at barton park was lengthened far beyond what the first invitation implied. their favour increased; they could not be spared; sir john would not hear of their going; and in spite of their numerous and long arranged engagements in exeter, in spite of the absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance. chapter xxv though mrs. jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own. since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near portman square. towards this home, she began on the approach of january to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder misses dashwood to accompany her. elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations. the reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. mrs. jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately. "oh, lord! i am sure your mother can spare you very well, and i _do_ beg you will favour me with your company, for i've quite set my heart upon it. don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for i shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. it will only be sending betty by the coach, and i hope i can afford _that._ we three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever i do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. i am sure your mother will not object to it; for i have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if i don't get one of you at least well married before i have done with you, it shall not be my fault. i shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon it." "i have a notion," said sir john, "that miss marianne would not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. it is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because miss dashwood does not wish it. so i would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are tired of barton, without saying a word to miss dashwood about it." "nay," cried mrs. jennings, "i am sure i shall be monstrous glad of miss marianne's company, whether miss dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say i, and i thought it would be more comfortable for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. but one or the other, if not both of them, i must have. lord bless me! how do you think i can live poking by myself, i who have been always used till this winter to have charlotte with me. come, miss marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if miss dashwood will change her mind by and bye, why so much the better." "i thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said marianne, with warmth: "your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness i am capable of, to be able to accept it. but my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--i feel the justice of what elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence--oh! no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. it should not, must not be a struggle." mrs. jennings repeated her assurance that mrs. dashwood could spare them perfectly well; and elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be with willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons to avoid. whatever marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to london. that marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with mrs. jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to her, as elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness. on being informed of the invitation, mrs. dashwood, persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the heart of marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon _her_ account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all, from this separation. "i am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what i could wish. margaret and i shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. when you and the middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music! you will find margaret so improved when you come back again! i have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to any one. it is very right that you _should_ go to town; i would have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements of london. you will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you i can have no doubt. and in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when i consider whose son he is, i cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other." "though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said elinor, "you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed." marianne's countenance sunk. "and what," said mrs. dashwood, "is my dear prudent elinor going to suggest? what formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? do let me hear a word about the expense of it." "my objection is this; though i think very well of mrs. jennings's heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us consequence." "that is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society, separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all, and you will almost always appear in public with lady middleton." "if elinor is frightened away by her dislike of mrs. jennings," said marianne, "at least it need not prevent _my_ accepting her invitation. i have no such scruples, and i am sure i could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort." elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not think it proper that marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that mrs. jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours. to this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that edward ferrars, by lucy's account, was not to be in town before february; and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished. "i will have you _both_ go," said mrs. dashwood; "these objections are nonsensical. you will have much pleasure in being in london, and especially in being together; and if elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family." elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her mother's dependence on the attachment of edward and herself, that the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "i like edward ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether i am ever known to them or not." mrs. dashwood smiled, and said nothing. marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her tongue. after very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully accepted. mrs. jennings received the information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. sir john was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in london, was something. even lady middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for the miss steeles, especially lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them. elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. with regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence. marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. her unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. her mother's affliction was hardly less, and elinor was the only one of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal. their departure took place in the first week in january. the middletons were to follow in about a week. the miss steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family. chapter xxvi elinor could not find herself in the carriage with mrs. jennings, and beginning a journey to london under her protection, and as her guest, without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure only a few days before! but these objections had all, with that happy ardour of youth which marianne and her mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked; and elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of marianne's situation to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. a short, a very short time however must now decide what willoughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in town. marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character which her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place. should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature--she must then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of marianne. they were three days on their journey, and marianne's behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and companionableness to mrs. jennings might be expected to be. she sat in silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. to atone for this conduct therefore, elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to mrs. jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could; and mrs. jennings on her side treated them both with all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. they reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire. the house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. it had formerly been charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect. as dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival, elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose. in a few moments marianne did the same. "i am writing home, marianne," said elinor; "had not you better defer your letter for a day or two?" "i am _not_ going to write to my mother," replied marianne, hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. elinor said no more; it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to willoughby; and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. this conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity. marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with eager rapidity. elinor thought she could distinguish a large w in the direction; and no sooner was it complete than marianne, ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny post. this decided the matter at once. her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agitation increased as the evening drew on. she could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage. it was a great satisfaction to elinor that mrs. jennings, by being much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. the tea things were brought in, and already had marianne been disappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, elinor felt secure of its announcing willoughby's approach, and marianne, starting up, moved towards the door. every thing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, "oh, elinor, it is willoughby, indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when colonel brandon appeared. it was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately left the room. elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her regard for colonel brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. she instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards herself. "is your sister ill?" said he. elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour. he heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in london, making the usual inquiries about their journey, and the friends they had left behind. in this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both engaged elsewhere. elinor wished very much to ask whether willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in london ever since she had seen him last. "yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; i have been once or twice at delaford for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return to barton." this, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to mrs. jennings, and she was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than she had ever felt. mrs. jennings soon came in. "oh! colonel," said she, with her usual noisy cheerfulness, "i am monstrous glad to see you--sorry i could not come before--beg your pardon, but i have been forced to look about me a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since i have been at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time; and then i have had cartwright to settle with. lord, i have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! but pray, colonel, how came you to conjure out that i should be in town today?" "i had the pleasure of hearing it at mr. palmer's, where i have been dining." "oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? how does charlotte do? i warrant you she is a fine size by this time." "mrs. palmer appeared quite well, and i am commissioned to tell you, that you will certainly see her to-morrow." "ay, to be sure, i thought as much. well, colonel, i have brought two young ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. your friend, miss marianne, too--which you will not be sorry to hear. i do not know what you and mr. willoughby will do between you about her. ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. well! i was young once, but i never was very handsome--worse luck for me. however, i got a very good husband, and i don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years and better. but colonel, where have you been to since we parted? and how does your business go on? come, come, let's have no secrets among friends." he replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but without satisfying her in any. elinor now began to make the tea, and marianne was obliged to appear again. after her entrance, colonel brandon became more thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and mrs. jennings could not prevail on him to stay long. no other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed. marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks. the disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen that day. they had not long finished their breakfast before mrs. palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or the miss dashwoods again. so surprised at their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they had not come! "mr. palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "what do you think he said when he heard of your coming with mamma? i forget what it was now, but it was something so droll!" after an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat, or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaintance on mrs. jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on mrs. palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to which mrs. jennings and elinor readily consented, as having likewise some purchases to make themselves; and marianne, though declining it at first was induced to go likewise. wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. in bond street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all that interested and occupied the others. restless and dissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of mrs. palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision. it was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had they entered the house than marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance, which declared that no willoughby had been there. "has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she to the footman who then entered with the parcels. she was answered in the negative. "are you quite sure of it?" she replied. "are you certain that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?" the man replied that none had. "how very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she turned away to the window. "how odd, indeed!" repeated elinor within herself, regarding her sister with uneasiness. "if she had not known him to be in town she would not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to combe magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write! oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! i long to inquire; and how will _my_ interference be borne." she determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious enquiry into the affair. mrs. palmer and two elderly ladies of mrs. jennings's intimate acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them. the former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements; and elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others. marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to her than to elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment. she sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap. chapter xxvii "if this open weather holds much longer," said mrs. jennings, when they met at breakfast the following morning, "sir john will not like leaving barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's pleasure. poor souls! i always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much to heart." "that is true," cried marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the window as she spoke, to examine the day. "i had not thought of that. this weather will keep many sportsmen in the country." it was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it. "it is charming weather for _them_ indeed," she continued, as she sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. "how much they must enjoy it! but" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be expected to last long. at this time of the year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity. in another day or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight!" "at any rate," said elinor, wishing to prevent mrs. jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "i dare say we shall have sir john and lady middleton in town by the end of next week." "ay, my dear, i'll warrant you we do. mary always has her own way." "and now," silently conjectured elinor, "she will write to combe by this day's post." but if she _did_, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. whatever the truth of it might be, and far as elinor was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while she saw marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable herself. and marianne was in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of a frost. the morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of mrs. jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air. "don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, elinor? there seems to me a very decided difference. i can hardly keep my hands warm even in my muff. it was not so yesterday, i think. the clouds seem parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon." elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but marianne persevered, and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost. the miss dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with mrs. jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. every thing in her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to lady middleton's regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had expected, elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her. colonel brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to look at marianne and talk to elinor, who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much concern his continued regard for her sister. she feared it was a strengthening regard. it grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at barton. about a week after their arrival, it became certain that willoughby was also arrived. his card was on the table when they came in from the morning's drive. "good god!" cried marianne, "he has been here while we were out." elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in london, now ventured to say, "depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow." but marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on mrs. jennings's entrance, escaped with the precious card. this event, while it raised the spirits of elinor, restored to those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. from this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. she insisted on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out. elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in berkeley street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her, that willoughby had paid no second visit there. a note was just then brought in, and laid on the table. "for me!" cried marianne, stepping hastily forward. "no, ma'am, for my mistress." but marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up. "it is indeed for mrs. jennings; how provoking!" "you are expecting a letter, then?" said elinor, unable to be longer silent. "yes, a little--not much." after a short pause. "you have no confidence in me, marianne." "nay, elinor, this reproach from _you_--you who have confidence in no one!" "me!" returned elinor in some confusion; "indeed, marianne, i have nothing to tell." "nor i," answered marianne with energy, "our situations then are alike. we have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not communicate, and i, because i conceal nothing." elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press for greater openness in marianne. mrs. jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it aloud. it was from lady middleton, announcing their arrival in conduit street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and cousins the following evening. business on sir john's part, and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in berkeley street. the invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was in common civility to mrs. jennings, that they should both attend her on such a visit, elinor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence. elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town, sir john had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball. this was an affair, however, of which lady middleton did not approve. in the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in london, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it known that lady middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation. mr. and mrs. palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance. he looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to mrs. jennings from the other side of the room. marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it was enough--_he_ was not there--and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. after they had been assembled about an hour, mr. palmer sauntered towards the miss dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, though colonel brandon had been first informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they were to come. "i thought you were both in devonshire," said he. "did you?" replied elinor. "when do you go back again?" "i do not know." and thus ended their discourse. never had marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. she complained of it as they returned to berkeley street. "aye, aye," said mrs. jennings, "we know the reason of all that very well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited." "invited!" cried marianne. "so my daughter middleton told me, for it seems sir john met him somewhere in the street this morning." marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. impatient in this situation to be doing something that might lead to her sister's relief, elinor resolved to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health of marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that marianne was again writing to willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other person. about the middle of the day, mrs. jennings went out by herself on business, and elinor began her letter directly, while marianne, too restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions of willoughby's inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from marianne an account of her real situation with respect to him. her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and colonel brandon was announced. marianne, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it. he looked more than usually grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding miss dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word. elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. it was not the first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before, beginning with the observation of "your sister looks unwell to-day," or "your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about her. after a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant? he tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's engagement to mr. willoughby is very generally known." "it cannot be generally known," returned elinor, "for her own family do not know it." he looked surprised and said, "i beg your pardon, i am afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but i had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of." "how can that be? by whom can you have heard it mentioned?" "by many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate, mrs. jennings, mrs. palmer, and the middletons. but still i might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if i had not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to mr. willoughby in your sister's writing. i came to inquire, but i was convinced before i could ask the question. is every thing finally settled? is it impossible to-? but i have no right, and i could have no chance of succeeding. excuse me, miss dashwood. i believe i have been wrong in saying so much, but i hardly know what to do, and on your prudence i have the strongest dependence. tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains." these words, which conveyed to elinor a direct avowal of his love for her sister, affected her very much. she was not immediately able to say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. the real state of things between willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too little. yet as she was convinced that marianne's affection for willoughby, could leave no hope of colonel brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. she acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear. he listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "to your sister i wish all imaginable happiness; to willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her,"--took leave, and went away. elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of colonel brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm it. chapter xxviii nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make elinor regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for willoughby neither came nor wrote. they were engaged about the end of that time to attend lady middleton to a party, from which mrs. jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party, marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. she sat by the drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of lady middleton's arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and when at last they were told that lady middleton waited for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected. they arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferably hot. when they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. after some time spent in saying little or doing less, lady middleton sat down to cassino, and as marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table. they had not remained in this manner long, before elinor perceived willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. she soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. elinor turned involuntarily to marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. at that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her. "good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there--he is there--oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot i speak to him?" "pray, pray be composed," cried elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. perhaps he has not observed you yet." this however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of marianne, it was beyond her wish. she sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. [illustration: _at that moment she first perceived him._] at last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. he approached, and addressing himself rather to elinor than marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after mrs. dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. but the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "good god! willoughby, what is the meaning of this? have you not received my letters? will you not shake hands with me?" he could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. during all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. after a moment's pause, he spoke with calmness. "i did myself the honour of calling in berkeley street last tuesday, and very much regretted that i was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and mrs. jennings at home. my card was not lost, i hope." "but have you not received my notes?" cried marianne in the wildest anxiety. "here is some mistake i am sure--some dreadful mistake. what can be the meaning of it? tell me, willoughby; for heaven's sake tell me, what is the matter?" he made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "yes, i had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "go to him, elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. tell him i must see him again--must speak to him instantly. i cannot rest--i shall not have a moment's peace till this is explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other. oh, go to him this moment." "how can that be done? no, my dearest marianne, you must wait. this is not the place for explanations. wait only till tomorrow." with difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. in a short time elinor saw willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. she instantly begged her sister would entreat lady middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. lady middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as the carriage could be found. scarcely a word was spoken during their return to berkeley street. marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as mrs. jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. she was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of mrs. jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past. that some kind of engagement had subsisted between willoughby and marianne she could not doubt, and that willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however marianne might still feed her own wishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt. as for marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could _esteem_ edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. but every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of marianne in a final separation from willoughby--in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. chapter xxix before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in january, marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. in this situation, elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness-- "marianne, may i ask--" "no, elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." the sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. it was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to willoughby. elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world. in such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body. at breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage mrs. jennings's notice entirely to herself. as this was a favourite meal with mrs. jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremor as made her fear it impossible to escape mrs. jennings's notice. that good lady, however, saw only that marianne had received a letter from willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. of elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as marianne disappeared, she said-- "upon my word, i never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! _my_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for miss marianne, she is quite an altered creature. i hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. pray, when are they to be married?" elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "and have you really, ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to mr. willoughby? i thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and i must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. i do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married." "for shame, for shame, miss dashwood! how can you talk so? don't we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? did not i see them together in devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not i know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? come, come, this won't do. because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, i can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. i tell every body of it and so does charlotte." "indeed, ma'am," said elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now." mrs. jennings laughed again, but elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others laying by her. elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than marianne's. the latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into elinor's hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to willoughby's letter, read as follows:-- "bond street, january. "my dear madam, "i have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which i beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. i am much concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though i am quite at a loss to discover in what point i could be so unfortunate as to offend you, i entreat your forgiveness of what i can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. i shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. my esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if i have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than i felt, or meant to express, i shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. that i should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, i believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. it is with great regret that i obey your commands in returning the letters with which i have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed on me. i am, dear madam, your most obedient humble servant, "john willoughby." with what indignation such a letter as this must be read by miss dashwood, may be imagined. though aware, before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever;--a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy. she paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all evils,--a connection, for life, with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important. in her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the very different mind of a very different person, who had no other connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing that passed, elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive mrs. jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one. determined not to quit marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending mrs. jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed. mrs. jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to marianne, whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness. a glass of wine, which elinor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her kindness, by saying, "poor elinor! how unhappy i make you!" "i only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing i _could_ do, which might be of comfort to you." this, as every thing else would have been, was too much for marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "oh! elinor, i am miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs. elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence. "exert yourself, dear marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill yourself and all who love you. think of your mother; think of her misery while _you_ suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself." "i cannot, i cannot," cried marianne; "leave me, leave me, if i distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so. oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! happy, happy elinor, _you_ cannot have an idea of what i suffer." "do you call _me_ happy, marianne? ah! if you knew! and can you believe me to be so, while i see you so wretched!" "forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "i know you feel for me; i know what a heart you have; but yet you are--you must be happy; edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away such happiness as that?" "many, many circumstances," said elinor, solemnly. "no, no, no," cried marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. you _can_ have no grief." "i can have no pleasure while i see you in this state." "and you will never see me otherwise. mine is a misery which nothing can do away." "you must not talk so, marianne. have you no comforts? no friends? is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period;--if your engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it. every additional day of unhappy confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful." "engagement!" cried marianne, "there has been no engagement." "no engagement!" "no, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. he has broken no faith with me." "but he told you that he loved you." "yes--no--never absolutely. it was every day implied, but never professedly declared. sometimes i thought it had been--but it never was." "yet you wrote to him?" "yes: could that be wrong after all that had passed? but i cannot talk." elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all. the first, which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town, was to this effect:-- "berkeley street, january. "how surprised you will be, willoughby, on receiving this; and i think you will feel something more than surprise, when you know that i am in town. an opportunity of coming hither, though with mrs. jennings, was a temptation we could not resist. i wish you may receive this in time to come here tonight, but i will not depend on it. at any rate i shall expect you to-morrow. for the present, adieu. m.d." her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the middletons', was in these words:-- "i cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a note which i sent you above a week ago. i have been expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day. pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. you had better come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. we were last night at lady middleton's, where there was a dance. i have been told that you were asked to be of the party. but could it be so? you must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. but i will not suppose this possible, and i hope very soon to receive your personal assurance of its being otherwise. m.d." the contents of her last note to him were these:-- "what am i to imagine, willoughby, by your behaviour last night? again i demand an explanation of it. i was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced,--with the familiarity which our intimacy at barton appeared to me to justify. i was repulsed indeed! i have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though i have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, i am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. you have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and i shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. it would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill of you; but if i am to do it, if i am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. my feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; i wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to what i now suffer. if your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession. m.d." that such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so answered, elinor, for willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe. but her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when marianne, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation. "i felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other." "i can believe it," said elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel the same." "he _did_ feel the same, elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it. i know he did. whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can have done it), i was once as dear to him as my own soul could wish. this lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication. had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that moment! have you forgot the last evening of our being together at barton? the morning that we parted too! when he told me that it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can i ever forget his distress?" for a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone-- "elinor, i have been cruelly used; but not by willoughby." "dearest marianne, who but himself? by whom can he have been instigated?" "by all the world, rather than by his own heart. i could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. this woman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but your own dear self, mama, and edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom i would not rather suspect of evil than willoughby, whose heart i know so well?" elinor would not contend, and only replied, "whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. it is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence." "no, no," cried marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. i care not who knows that i am wretched. the triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world. elinor, elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return mortification--but i cannot. i must feel--i must be wretched--and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can." "but for my mother's sake and mine--" "i would do more than for my own. but to appear happy when i am so miserable--oh! who can require it?" again they were both silent. elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other; and marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed-- "it is too much! oh, willoughby, willoughby, could this be yours! cruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you. elinor, nothing can. whatever he might have heard against me, ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself? 'the lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,) which you so obligingly bestowed on me'--that is unpardonable. willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? oh, barbarously insolent!--elinor, can he be justified?" "no, marianne, in no possible way." "and yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--who is she?--who can she be?--whom did i ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his female acquaintance?--oh! no one, no one:--he talked to me only of myself." another pause ensued; marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus:-- "elinor, i must go home. i must go and comfort mama. can not we be gone to-morrow?" "to-morrow, marianne!" "yes, why should i stay here? i came only for willoughby's sake--and now who cares for me? who regards me?" "it would be impossible to go to-morrow. we owe mrs. jennings much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that." "well then, another day or two, perhaps; but i cannot stay here long, i cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. the middletons and palmers--how am i to bear their pity? the pity of such a woman as lady middleton! oh, what would _he_ say to that!" elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till mrs. jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless. chapter xxx mrs. jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern. "how do you do my dear?" said she in a voice of great compassion to marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. "how is she, miss dashwood? poor thing! she looks very bad. no wonder. ay, it is but too true. he is to be married very soon--a good-for-nothing fellow! i have no patience with him. mrs. taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of miss grey herself, else i am sure i should not have believed it; and i was almost ready to sink as it was. well, said i, all i can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and i wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. and so i shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. i have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever i meet him again, i will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. but there is one comfort, my dear miss marianne--he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. well, poor thing! i won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. the parrys and sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her." she then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise. marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. elinor even advised her against it. but "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it. when there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half mrs. jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her. elinor, who did justice to mrs. jennings's kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. their good friend saw that marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. she treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. had not elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by mrs. jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. as soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on marianne, she could stay no longer. with a hasty exclamation of misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room. "poor soul!" cried mrs. jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! and i declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! and the dried cherries too! lord! nothing seems to do her any good. i am sure if i knew of any thing she would like, i would send all over the town for it. well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! but when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, lord bless you! they care no more about such things!" "the lady then,--miss grey i think you called her,--is very rich?" "fifty thousand pounds, my dear. did you ever see her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome. i remember her aunt very well, biddy henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. but the family are all rich together. fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. no wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! well, it don't signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? i warrant you, miss marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. but that won't do nowadays; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age." "do you know what kind of a girl miss grey is? is she said to be amiable?" "i never heard any harm of her; indeed i hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that mrs. taylor did say this morning, that one day miss walker hinted to her, that she believed mr. and mrs. ellison would not be sorry to have miss grey married, for she and mrs. ellison could never agree." "and who are the ellisons?" "her guardians, my dear. but now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made!--what now," after pausing a moment, "your poor sister is gone to her own room, i suppose, to moan by herself. is there nothing one can get to comfort her? poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. well, by and by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. what shall we play at? she hates whist i know; but is there no round game she cares for?" "dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. marianne, i dare say, will not leave her room again this evening. i shall persuade her if i can to go early to bed, for i am sure she wants rest." "aye, i believe that will be best for her. let her name her own supper, and go to bed. lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter i suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. and so the letter that came today finished it! poor soul! i am sure if i had had a notion of it, i would not have joked her about it for all my money. but then you know, how should i guess such a thing? i made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. lord! how concerned sir john and my daughters will be when they hear it! if i had my senses about me i might have called in conduit street in my way home, and told them of it. but i shall see them to-morrow." "it would be unnecessary i am sure, for you to caution mrs. palmer and sir john against ever naming mr. willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "oh! lord! yes, that i do indeed. it must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, i am sure i would not mention a word about it to her for the world. you saw i did not all dinner time. no more would sir john, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if i give them a hint, as i certainly will. for my part, i think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. and what does talking ever do you know?" "in this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. i must do _this_ justice to mr. willoughby--he has broken no positive engagement with my sister." "law, my dear! don't pretend to defend him. no positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over allenham house, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!" elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for willoughby's; since, though marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. after a short silence on both sides, mrs. jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill wind, for it will be all the better for colonel brandon. he will have her at last; aye, that he will. mind me, now, if they an't married by mid-summer. lord! how he'll chuckle over this news! i hope he will come tonight. it will be all to one a better match for your sister. two thousand a year without debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, i had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? delaford is a nice place, i can tell you; exactly what i call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! lord! how charlotte and i did stuff the only time we were there! then, there is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. oh! 'tis a nice place! a butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. to my fancy, a thousand times prettier than barton park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. well, i shall spirit up the colonel as soon as i can. one shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. if we _can_ but put willoughby out of her head!" "ay, if we can do that, ma'am," said elinor, "we shall do very well with or without colonel brandon." and then rising, she went away to join marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till elinor's entrance, had been her only light. "you had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received from her. "i will leave you," said elinor, "if you will go to bed." but this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do. her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her. in the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by mrs. jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand. "my dear," said she, entering, "i have just recollected that i have some of the finest old constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so i have brought a glass of it for your sister. my poor husband! how fond he was of it! whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the world. do take it to your sister." "dear ma'am," replied elinor, smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! but i have just left marianne in bed, and, i hope, almost asleep; and as i think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, i will drink the wine myself." mrs. jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister. colonel brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for marianne, elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. mrs. jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where elinor presided, and whispered, "the colonel looks as grave as ever you see. he knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear." [illustration: "_how fond he was of it!_"] he shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's, and, with a look which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her sister. "marianne is not well," said she. "she has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed." "perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what i heard this morning may be--there may be more truth in it than i could believe possible at first." "what did you hear?" "that a gentleman, whom i had reason to think--in short, that a man, whom i _knew_ to be engaged--but how shall i tell you? if you know it already, as surely you must, i may be spared." "you mean," answered elinor, with forced calmness, "mr. willoughby's marriage with miss grey. yes, we _do_ know it all. this seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us. mr. willoughby is unfathomable! where did you hear it?" "in a stationer's shop in pall mall, where i had business. two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. the name of willoughby, john willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing was now finally settled respecting his marriage with miss grey--it was no longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters. one thing, especially, i remember, because it served to identify the man still more:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to combe magna, his seat in somersetshire. my astonishment!--but it would be impossible to describe what i felt. the communicative lady i learnt, on inquiry,--for i stayed in the shop till they were gone,--was a mrs. ellison, and that, as i have been since informed, is the name of miss grey's guardian." "it is. but have you likewise heard that miss grey has fifty thousand pounds? in that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation." "it may be so; but willoughby is capable--at least i think--" he stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "and your sister,--how did she,--" "her sufferings have been very severe. i have only to hope that they may be proportionately short. it has been, it is a most cruel affliction. till yesterday, i believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps--but _i_ am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her. he has been very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him." "ah!" said colonel brandon, "there is, indeed! but your sister does not--i think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?" "you know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she could." he made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. mrs. jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of miss dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on colonel brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual. chapter xxxi from a night of more sleep than she had expected, marianne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had closed her eyes. elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on marianne's, as before. sometimes she could believe willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. at one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third could resist it with energy. in one thing, however, she was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of mrs. jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. her heart was hardened against the belief of mrs. jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion. "no, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel. her kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. all that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because i supply it." elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. she expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself. thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of mrs. jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though mrs. jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost good-will. with a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying-- "now, my dear, i bring you something that i am sure will do you good." marianne heard enough. in one moment her imagination placed before her a letter from willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to enforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. the work of one moment was destroyed by the next. the hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered. the cruelty of mrs. jennings, no language, within her reach in her moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate violence;--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the letter of comfort. but the letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. willoughby filled every page. her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by elinor's application, to entreat from marianne greater openness towards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it. all her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken confidence in willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for marianne to be in london or at barton, offered no counsel of her own except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge. mrs. jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy till the middletons and palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning. elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by marianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat her directions for the future; while marianne, who came into the drawing-room on mrs. jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table where elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect on her mother. in this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door. "who can this be?" cried elinor. "so early too! i thought we _had_ been safe." marianne moved to the window-- "it is colonel brandon!" said she, with vexation. "we are never safe from _him._" "he will not come in, as mrs. jennings is from home." "i will not trust to _that_," retreating to her own room. "a man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others." the event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice and error; for colonel brandon _did_ come in; and elinor, who was convinced that solicitude for marianne brought him thither, and who saw _that_ solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly. "i met mrs. jennings in bond street," said he, after the first salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and i was the more easily encouraged, because i thought it probable that i might find you alone, which i was very desirous of doing. my object--my wish--my sole wish in desiring it--i hope, i believe it is--is to be a means of giving comfort;--no, i must not say comfort--not present comfort--but conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind. my regard for her, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances which nothing but a _very_ sincere regard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--i think i am justified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that i am right, is there not some reason to fear i may be wrong?" he stopped. "i understand you," said elinor. "you have something to tell me of mr. willoughby, that will open his character farther. your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown marianne. _my_ gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that end, and _hers_ must be gained by it in time. pray, pray let me hear it." "you shall; and, to be brief, when i quitted barton last october,--but this will give you no idea--i must go farther back. you will find me a very awkward narrator, miss dashwood; i hardly know where to begin. a short account of myself, i believe, will be necessary, and it _shall_ be a short one. on such a subject," sighing heavily, "can i have little temptation to be diffuse." he stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went on. "you have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be supposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation between us one evening at barton park--it was the evening of a dance--in which i alluded to a lady i had once known, as resembling, in some measure, your sister marianne." "indeed," answered elinor, "i have _not_ forgotten it." he looked pleased by this remembrance, and added-- "if i am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well in mind as person. the same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits. this lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. our ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows and friends. i cannot remember the time when i did not love eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of having ever felt. her's, for me, was, i believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to mr. willoughby and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. at seventeen she was lost to me for ever. she was married--married against her inclination to my brother. her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. and this, i fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian. my brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. i had hoped that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing--but how blindly i relate! i have never told you how this was brought on. we were within a few hours of eloping together for scotland. the treachery, or the folly, of my cousin's maid betrayed us. i was banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father's point was gained. i had depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one, but had her marriage been happy, so young as i then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at least i should not have now to lament it. this however was not the case. my brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. the consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as mrs. brandon's, was but too natural. she resigned herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. but can we wonder that, with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their marriage, and i was with my regiment in the east indies) she should fall? had i remained in england, perhaps--but i meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange. the shock which her marriage had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling weight--was nothing to what i felt when i heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce. it was _that_ which threw this gloom,--even now the recollection of what i suffered--" he could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about the room. elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his distress, could not speak. he saw her concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. a few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure. "it was nearly three years after this unhappy period before i returned to england. my first care, when i _did_ arrive, was of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. i could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and i learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. he imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. at last, however, and after i had been six months in england, i _did_ find her. regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. so altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could i believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom i had once doted. what i endured in so beholding her--but i have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--i have pained you too much already. that she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was my greatest comfort. life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was given. i saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; i visited her every day during the rest of her short life: i was with her in her last moments." again he stopped to recover himself; and elinor spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend. "your sister, i hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance i have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other be. but to what does all this lead? i seem to have been distressing you for nothing. ah! miss dashwood--a subject such as this--untouched for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at all! i _will_ be more collected--more concise. she left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about three years old. she loved the child, and had always kept it with her. it was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would i have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but i had no family, no home; and my little eliza was therefore placed at school. i saw her there whenever i could, and after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she visited me at delaford. i called her a distant relation; but i am well aware that i have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. it is now three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that i removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very respectable woman, residing in dorsetshire, who had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years i had every reason to be pleased with her situation. but last february, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. i had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go to bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there for his health. i knew him to be a very good sort of man, and i thought well of his daughter--better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. he, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, i believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. in short, i could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. what i thought, what i feared, may be imagined; and what i suffered too." "good heavens!" cried elinor, "could it be--could willoughby!"-- "the first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a letter from herself, last october. it was forwarded to me from delaford, and i received it on the very morning of our intended party to whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving barton so suddenly, which i am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which i believe gave offence to some. little did mr. willoughby imagine, i suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that i was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would it have availed? would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? no, he had already done that, which no man who _can_ feel for another would do. he had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! he had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her." "this is beyond every thing!" exclaimed elinor. "his character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. knowing all this, as i have now known it many weeks, guess what i must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what i must have felt for all your sakes. when i came to you last week and found you alone, i came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it _was_ known. my behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. to suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister--but what could i do? i had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes i thought your sister's influence might yet reclaim him. but now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless _will_, turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. surely this comparison must have its use with her. she will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. they proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. on the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what i have told you. you must know best what will be its effect; but had i not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, i would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "i have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. now, though at first she will suffer much, i am sure she will soon become easier. have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen mr. willoughby since you left him at barton?" "yes," he replied gravely, "once i have. one meeting was unavoidable." elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying-- "what? have you met him to--" "i could meet him no other way. eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, i to punish his conduct. we returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "such," said colonel brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have i discharged my trust!" "is she still in town?" "no; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for i found her near her delivery, i removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. chapter xxxii when the particulars of this conversation were repeated by miss dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. not that marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. but though this behaviour assured elinor that the conviction of this guilt _was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding colonel brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. she felt the loss of willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of miss williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might _once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them. to give the feelings or the language of mrs. dashwood on receiving and answering elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than marianne's, and an indignation even greater than elinor's. long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. bad indeed must the nature of marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which _she_ could wish her not to indulge! against the interest of her own individual comfort, mrs. dashwood had determined that it would be better for marianne to be any where, at that time, than at barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. she recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to mrs. jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. a variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her. from all danger of seeing willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of london than even in the retirement of barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at allenham on his marriage, which mrs. dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one. she had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the middle of february, and she judged it right that they should sometimes see their brother. marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her longer continuance in london it deprived her of the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment's rest. but it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and elinor, on the other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better for marianne than an immediate return into devonshire. her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing willoughby's name mentioned, was not thrown away. marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither mrs. jennings, nor sir john, nor even mrs. palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all. sir john, could not have thought it possible. "a man of whom he had always had such reason to think well! such a good-natured fellow! he did not believe there was a bolder rider in england! it was an unaccountable business. he wished him at the devil with all his heart. he would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! no, not if it were to be by the side of barton covert, and they were kept watching for two hours together. such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! it was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of folly's puppies! and this was the end of it!" mrs. palmer, in her way, was equally angry. "she was determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at all. she wished with all her heart combe magna was not so near cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was." the rest of mrs. palmer's sympathy was shown in procuring all the particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them to elinor. she could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage was building, by what painter mr. willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse miss grey's clothes might be seen. [illustration: _offered him one of folly's puppies._] the calm and polite unconcern of lady middleton on the occasion was a happy relief to elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others. it was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no interest in _one_ person at least among their circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was _one_ who would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health. every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature. lady middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "it is very shocking, indeed!" and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able not only to see the miss dashwoods from the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather against the opinion of sir john) that as mrs. willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married. colonel brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome to miss dashwood. he had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. his chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye with which marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him. _these_ assured him that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and _these_ gave elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but mrs. jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of mid-summer, they would not be married till michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. the good understanding between the colonel and miss dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to _her_; and mrs. jennings had, for some time ceased to think at all of mrs. ferrars. early in february, within a fortnight from the receipt of willoughby's letter, elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was married. she had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning. she received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event. the willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before. about this time the two miss steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's house in bartlett's buildings, holborn, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in conduit and berkeley streets; and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality. elinor only was sorry to see them. their presence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering delight of lucy in finding her _still_ in town. "i should have been quite disappointed if i had not found you here _still_," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "but i always thought i _should_ i was almost sure you would not leave london yet awhile; though you _told_ me, you know, at barton, that you should not stay above a _month._ but i thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. it would have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came. and now to be sure you will be in no _hurry_ to be gone. i am amazingly glad you did not keep to _your word._" elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command to make it appear that she did _not._ "well, my dear," said mrs. jennings, "and how did you travel?" "not in the stage, i assure you," replied miss steele, with quick exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. dr. davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did." "oh, oh!" cried mrs. jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the doctor is a single man, i warrant you." "there now," said miss steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs at me so about the doctor, and i cannot think why. my cousins say they are sure i have made a conquest; but for my part i declare i never think about him from one hour's end to another. 'lord! here comes your beau, nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. my beau, indeed! said i--i cannot think who you mean. the doctor is no beau of mine." "aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the doctor is the man, i see." "no, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and i beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of." mrs. jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would _not_, and miss steele was made completely happy. "i suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, miss dashwood, when they come to town," said lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge. "no, i do not think we shall." "oh, yes, i dare say you will." elinor would not humour her by farther opposition. "what a charming thing it is that mrs. dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!" "long a time, indeed!" interposed mrs. jennings. "why, their visit is but just begun!" [illustration: _a very smart beau._] lucy was silenced. "i am sorry we cannot see your sister, miss dashwood," said miss steele. "i am sorry she is not well--" for marianne had left the room on their arrival. "you are very good. my sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation." "oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as lucy and me!--i think she might see _us_; and i am sure we would not speak a word." elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. "oh, if that's all," cried miss steele, "we can just as well go and see _her._" elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by lucy's sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other. chapter xxxiii after some opposition, marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and consented to go out with her and mrs. jennings one morning for half an hour. she expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to gray's in sackville street, where elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother. when they stopped at the door, mrs. jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at gray's, it was resolved, that while her young friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return for them. on ascending the stairs, the miss dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. all that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. but the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. he was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion. marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in mr. gray's shop, as in her own bedroom. at last the affair was decided. the ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the miss dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference. elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side. she turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother. [illustration: _introduced to mrs. jennings._] their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very creditable appearance in mr. gray's shop. john dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive. elinor found that he and fanny had been in town two days. "i wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take harry to see the wild beasts at exeter exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with mrs. ferrars. harry was vastly pleased. _this_ morning i had fully intended to call on you, if i could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town. i am come here to bespeak fanny a seal. but tomorrow i think i shall certainly be able to call in berkeley street, and be introduced to your friend mrs. jennings. i understand she is a woman of very good fortune. and the middletons too, you must introduce me to _them_. as my mother-in-law's relations, i shall be happy to show them every respect. they are excellent neighbours to you in the country, i understand." "excellent indeed. their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than i can express." "i am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. but so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. and so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing! edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. it was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, i assure you." elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of mrs. jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door. mr. dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to mrs. jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave. [illustration: _mrs. jennings assured him directly that she should not stand upon ceremony._] his visit was duly paid. he came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where." mrs. jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on mrs. john dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. his manners to _them_, though calm, were perfectly kind; to mrs. jennings, most attentively civil; and on colonel brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to _him._ after staying with them half an hour, he asked elinor to walk with him to conduit street, and introduce him to sir john and lady middleton. the weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. as soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began. "who is colonel brandon? is he a man of fortune?" "yes; he has very good property in dorsetshire." "i am glad of it. he seems a most gentlemanlike man; and i think, elinor, i may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life." "me, brother! what do you mean?" "he likes you. i observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. what is the amount of his fortune?" "i believe about two thousand a year." "two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "elinor, i wish with all my heart it were _twice_ as much, for your sake." "indeed i believe you," replied elinor; "but i am very sure that colonel brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me._ "you are mistaken, elinor; you are very much mistaken. a very little trouble on your side secures him. perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it. but some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. and there can be no reason why you should not try for him. it is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have too much sense not to see all that. colonel brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family. it is a match that must give universal satisfaction. in short, it is a kind of thing that," lowering his voice to an important whisper, "will be exceedingly welcome to _all parties._" recollecting himself, however, he added, "that is, i mean to say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, i assure you. and her mother too, mrs. ferrars, a very good-natured woman, i am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day." elinor would not vouchsafe any answer. "it would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something droll, if fanny should have a brother and i a sister settling at the same time. and yet it is not very unlikely." "is mr. edward ferrars," said elinor, with resolution, "going to be married?" "it is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. he has a most excellent mother. mrs. ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes place. the lady is the hon. miss morton, only daughter of the late lord morton, with thirty thousand pounds. a very desirable connection on both sides, and i have not a doubt of its taking place in time. a thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for ever; but mrs. ferrars has a noble spirit. to give you another instance of her liberality:--the other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. and extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here." he paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say-- "your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable; but your income is a large one." "not so large, i dare say, as many people suppose. i do not mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and i hope will in time be better. the enclosure of norland common, now carrying on, is a most serious drain. and then i have made a little purchase within this half year; east kingham farm, you must remember the place, where old gibson used to live. the land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that i felt it my duty to buy it. i could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. a man must pay for his convenience; and it _has_ cost me a vast deal of money." "more than you think it really and intrinsically worth." "why, i hope not that. i might have sold it again, the next day, for more than i gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, i might have been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if i had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's hands, i must have sold out to very great loss." elinor could only smile. "other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to norland. our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the stanhill effects that remained at norland (and very valuable they were) to your mother. far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. you may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable mrs. ferrars's kindness is." "certainly," said elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, i hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances." "another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; "but however there is still a great deal to be done. there is not a stone laid of fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the flower-garden marked out." "where is the green-house to be?" "upon the knoll behind the house. the old walnut trees are all come down to make room for it. it will be a very fine object from many parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty. we have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the brow." elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very thankful that marianne was not present, to share the provocation. having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his next visit at gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to congratulate elinor on having such a friend as mrs. jennings. "she seems a most valuable woman indeed--her house, her style of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially advantageous. her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be forgotten. she must have a great deal to leave." "nothing at all, i should rather suppose; for she has only her jointure, which will descend to her children." "but it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. few people of common prudence will do _that_; and whatever she saves, she will be able to dispose of." "and do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her daughters, than to us?" "her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore i cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises." "but she raises none in those most concerned. indeed, brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far." "why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have little, have very little in their power. but, my dear elinor, what is the matter with marianne?--she looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and is grown quite thin. is she ill?" "she is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several weeks." "i am sorry for that. at her time of life, any thing of an illness destroys the bloom for ever! her's has been a very short one! she was as handsome a girl last september, as i ever saw; and as likely to attract the man. there was something in her style of beauty, to please them particularly. i remember fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of _you_, but so it happened to strike her. she will be mistaken, however. i question whether marianne _now_, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and i am very much deceived if _you_ do not do better. dorsetshire! i know very little of dorsetshire; but, my dear elinor, i shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and i think i can answer for your having fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors." elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood of her marrying colonel brandon; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. he had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from colonel brandon, or a legacy from mrs. jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect. they were lucky enough to find lady middleton at home, and sir john came in before their visit ended. abundance of civilities passed on all sides. sir john was ready to like anybody, and though mr. dashwood did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow: while lady middleton saw enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and mr. dashwood went away delighted with both. "i shall have a charming account to carry to fanny," said he, as he walked back with his sister. "lady middleton is really a most elegant woman! such a woman as i am sure fanny will be glad to know. and mrs. jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as her daughter. your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting _her_, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very naturally; for we only knew that mrs. jennings was the widow of a man who had got all his money in a low way; and fanny and mrs. ferrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were such kind of women as fanny would like to associate with. but now i can carry her a most satisfactory account of both." chapter xxxiv mrs. john dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment, that she waited the very next day both on mrs. jennings and her daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy her notice; and as for lady middleton, she found her one of the most charming women in the world! lady middleton was equally pleased with mrs. dashwood. there was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding. the same manners, however, which recommended mrs. john dashwood to the good opinion of lady middleton did not suit the fancy of mrs. jennings, and to _her_ she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters without any affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on berkeley street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence. elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not choose to ask, whether edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced fanny voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with miss morton was resolved on, or till her husband's expectations on colonel brandon were answered; because she believed them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. the intelligence however, which _she_ would not give, soon flowed from another quarter. lucy came very shortly to claim elinor's compassion on being unable to see edward, though he had arrived in town with mr. and mrs. dashwood. he dared not come to bartlett's buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write. edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short time, by twice calling in berkeley street. twice was his card found on the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. elinor was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him. the dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the middletons, that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in harley street, where they had taken a very good house for three months. their sisters and mrs. jennings were invited likewise, and john dashwood was careful to secure colonel brandon, who, always glad to be where the miss dashwoods were, received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. they were to meet mrs. ferrars; but elinor could not learn whether her sons were to be of the party. the expectation of seeing _her_, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet edward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in company with mrs. ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever. the interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the miss steeles were also to be at it. so well had they recommended themselves to lady middleton, so agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though lucy was certainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as sir john to ask them to spend a week or two in conduit street; and it happened to be particularly convenient to the miss steeles, as soon as the dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party took place. their claims to the notice of mrs. john dashwood, as the nieces of the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as lady middleton's guests they must be welcome; and lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life, than she was on receiving mrs. john dashwood's card. on elinor its effect was very different. she began immediately to determine, that edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first time, after all that passed, in the company of lucy!--she hardly knew how she could bear it! these apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on truth. they were relieved however, not by her own recollection, but by the good will of lucy, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that edward certainly would not be in harley street on tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together. the important tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this formidable mother-in-law. "pity me, dear miss dashwood!" said lucy, as they walked up the stairs together--for the middletons arrived so directly after mrs. jennings, that they all followed the servant at the same time--"there is nobody here but you, that can feel for me. i declare i can hardly stand. good gracious!--in a moment i shall see the person that all my happiness depends on--that is to be my mother!"-- elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of its being miss morton's mother, rather than her own, whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter amazement of lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to elinor. mrs. ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. her complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters of pride and ill nature. she was not a woman of many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not one fell to the share of miss dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited determination of disliking her at all events. elinor could not _now_ be made unhappy by this behaviour. a few months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in mrs. ferrars' power to distress her by it now; and the difference of her manners to the miss steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused her. she could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person--for lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others, had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. but while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the miss steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all four. lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and miss steele wanted only to be teased about dr. davies to be perfectly happy. the dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing bespoke the mistress's inclination for show, and the master's ability to support it. in spite of the improvements and additions which were making to the norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to infer from it; no poverty of any kind, except of conversation, appeared; but there, the deficiency was considerable. john dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. but there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable--want of sense, either natural or improved--want of elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper. when the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen _had_ supplied the discourse with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land, and breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of harry dashwood, and lady middleton's second son william, who were nearly of the same age. had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as harry only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked. the parties stood thus:-- the two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other. the two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant. lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between them; and miss steele, with yet greater address gave it, as fast as she could, in favour of each. elinor, having once delivered her opinion on william's side, by which she offended mrs. ferrars and fanny still more, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and marianne, when called on for her's, offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had never thought about it. before her removing from norland, elinor had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens, catching the eye of john dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to colonel brandon for his admiration. "these are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of taste, will, i dare say, be pleased with them. i do not know whether you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well." the colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by miss dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for general inspection. mrs. ferrars, not aware of their being elinor's work, particularly requested to look at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of lady middleton's approbation, fanny presented them to her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by miss dashwood. "hum"--said mrs. ferrars--"very pretty,"--and without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter. perhaps fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude enough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said-- "they are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?" but then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added, "do you not think they are something in miss morton's style of painting, ma'am?--she _does_ paint most delightfully!--how beautifully her last landscape is done!" "beautifully indeed! but _she_ does every thing well." marianne could not bear this. she was already greatly displeased with mrs. ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at elinor's expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth-- "this is admiration of a very particular kind! what is miss morton to us? who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is elinor of whom _we_ think and speak." and so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be admired. [illustration: _mrs. ferrars._] mrs. ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "miss morton is lord morton's daughter." fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his sister's audacity. elinor was much more hurt by marianne's warmth than she had been by what produced it; but colonel brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point. marianne's feelings did not stop here. the cold insolence of mrs. ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such difficulties and distresses to elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager, voice-- "dear, dear elinor, don't mind them. don't let them make _you_ unhappy." she could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. every body's attention was called, and almost every body was concerned. colonel brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did. mrs. jennings, with a very intelligent "ah! poor dear," immediately gave her her salts; and sir john felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by lucy steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair. in a few minutes, however, marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening. "poor marianne!" said her brother to colonel brandon, in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention: "she has not such good health as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not elinor's constitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying to a young woman who _has been_ a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions. you would not think it perhaps, but marianne _was_ remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as elinor. now you see it is all gone." chapter xxxv elinor's curiosity to see mrs. ferrars was satisfied. she had found in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between the families undesirable. she had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage, of edward and herself, had he been otherwise free;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her _own_ sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other of mrs. ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. or at least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in edward's being fettered to lucy, she determined, that had lucy been more amiable, she _ought_ to have rejoiced. she wondered that lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the civility of mrs. ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she was _not elinor_ appear a compliment to herself--or to allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was unknown. but that it was so, had not only been declared by lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, lady middleton set her down in berkeley street on the chance of seeing elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was. the chance proved a lucky one, for a message from mrs. palmer soon after she arrived, carried mrs. jennings away. "my dear friend," cried lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, "i come to talk to you of my happiness. could anything be so flattering as mrs. ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? so exceeding affable as she was! you know how i dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the very moment i was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. now was not it so? you saw it all; and was not you quite struck with it?" "she was certainly very civil to you." "civil!--did you see nothing but only civility?--i saw a vast deal more. such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--no pride, no hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and affability!" elinor wished to talk of something else, but lucy still pressed her to own that she had reason for her happiness; and elinor was obliged to go on. "undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was not the case--" "i guessed you would say so," replied lucy quickly--"but there was no reason in the world why mrs. ferrars should seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every thing. you shan't talk me out of my satisfaction. i am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what i used to think. mrs. ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister. they are both delightful women, indeed!--i wonder i should never hear you say how agreeable mrs. dashwood was!" to this elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any. "are you ill, miss dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you an't well." "i never was in better health." "i am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. i should be sorry to have _you_ ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world!--heaven knows what i should have done without your friendship."-- elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. but it seemed to satisfy lucy, for she directly replied-- "indeed i am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to edward's love, it is the greatest comfort i have. poor edward!--but now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for lady middleton's delighted with mrs. dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in harley street, i dare say, and edward spends half his time with his sister--besides, lady middleton and mrs. ferrars will visit now;--and mrs. ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me. they are such charming women!--i am sure if ever you tell your sister what i think of her, you cannot speak too high." but elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she _should_ tell her sister. lucy continued. "i am sure i should have seen it in a moment, if mrs. ferrars had took a dislike to me. if she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what i mean--if i had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, i should have gave it all up in despair. i could not have stood it. for where she _does_ dislike, i know it is most violent." elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing mr. ferrars, and edward's immediately walking in. it was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that it was so. they all looked exceedingly foolish; and edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. the very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them. they were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. the ladies recovered themselves first. it was not lucy's business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. she could therefore only _look_ her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more. but elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. she would not allow the presence of lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in berkeley street. she would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her. her manners gave some re-assurance to edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of elinor's. lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that _was_ said, proceeded from elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c. which edward ought to have inquired about, but never did. her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and _that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. when that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of edward to cease; for marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. she met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister. "dear edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!--this would almost make amends for every thing!" edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at edward and sometimes at elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by lucy's unwelcome presence. edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding london agree with her. "oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of _my_ health. elinor is well, you see. that must be enough for us both." this remark was not calculated to make edward or elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of lucy, who looked up at marianne with no very benignant expression. "do you like london?" said edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject. "not at all. i expected much pleasure in it, but i have found none. the sight of you, edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank heaven! you are what you always were!" she paused--no one spoke. "i think, elinor," she presently added, "we must employ edward to take care of us in our return to barton. in a week or two, i suppose, we shall be going; and, i trust, edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge." poor edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. but marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else. "we spent such a day, edward, in harley street yesterday! so dull, so wretchedly dull!--but i have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now." and with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private. "but why were you not there, edward?--why did you not come?" "i was engaged elsewhere." "engaged! but what was that, when such friends were to be met?" "perhaps, miss marianne," cried lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great." elinor was very angry, but marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied-- "not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, i am very sure that conscience only kept edward from harley street. and i really believe he _has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. he is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body i ever saw. edward, it is so, and i will say it. what! are you never to hear yourself praised!--then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation." the nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to edward, that he very soon got up to go away. "going so soon!" said marianne; "my dear edward, this must not be." and drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that lucy could not stay much longer. but even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and lucy, who would have outstayed him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away. "what can bring her here so often?" said marianne, on her leaving them. "could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teasing to edward!" "why so?--we were all his friends, and lucy has been the longest known to him of any. it is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves." marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "you know, elinor, that this is a kind of talking which i cannot bear. if you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as i must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that i am the last person in the world to do it. i cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted." she then left the room; and elinor dared not follow her to say more, for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to lucy, she could give no information that would convince marianne; and painful as the consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it. all that she could hope, was that edward would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had every reason to expect. [illustration: _drawing him a little aside._] chapter xxxvi within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world, that the lady of thomas palmer, esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before. this event, highly important to mrs. jennings's happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possible with charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening; and the miss dashwoods, at the particular request of the middletons, spent the whole of every day, in conduit street. for their own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in mrs. jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. their hours were therefore made over to lady middleton and the two miss steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought. they had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on _their_ ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. though nothing could be more polite than lady middleton's behaviour to elinor and marianne, she did not really like them at all. because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but _that_ did not signify. it was censure in common use, and easily given. their presence was a restraint both on her and on lucy. it checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other. lady middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which lucy was proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering. miss steele was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely. would either of them only have given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between marianne and mr. willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. but this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. an effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend. would they only have laughed at her about the doctor! but so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if sir john dined from home, she might spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself. all these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected by mrs. jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. she joined them sometimes at sir john's, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing charlotte's well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation, as only miss steele had curiosity enough to desire. one thing _did_ disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint. mr. palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world. i come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell mrs. john dashwood. it so happened that while her two sisters with mrs. jennings were first calling on her in harley street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her. but while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. in the present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the miss dashwoods, and understanding them to be mr. dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them to be staying in harley street; and this misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. the consequence of which was, that mrs. john dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the miss dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time? the power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be her's. but that was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them. marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take her. to her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet, which it received from miss steele in the first five minutes of their being together, when it was finished. nothing escaped _her_ minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether with better judgment than marianne herself, and was not without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. the impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was considered by marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and she dared to say she would make a great many conquests." with such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman. the events of this evening were not very remarkable. the party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in england. as elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. in one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at gray's. she perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and mr. dashwood introduced him to her as mr. robert ferrars. he addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by lucy. happy had it been for her, if her regard for edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! for then his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. but while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with the modesty and worth of the other. why they _were_ different, robert exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme _gaucherie_ which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education; while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man. "upon my soul," he added, "i believe it is nothing more; and so i often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'my dear madam,' i always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. the evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. why would you be persuaded by my uncle, sir robert, against your own judgment, to place edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? if you had only sent him to westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to mr. pratt's, all this would have been prevented.' this is the way in which i always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error." elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of edward's abode in mr. pratt's family, with any satisfaction. "you reside in devonshire, i think,"--was his next observation, "in a cottage near dawlish." elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising to him that anybody could live in devonshire, without living near dawlish. he bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species of house. "for my own part," said he, "i am excessively fond of a cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. and i protest, if i had any money to spare, i should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short distance of london, where i might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. i advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. my friend lord courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of bonomi's. i was to decide on the best of them. 'my dear courtland,' said i, immediately throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage.' and that i fancy, will be the end of it. "some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. i was last month at my friend elliott's, near dartford. lady elliott wished to give a dance. 'but how can it be done?' said she; 'my dear ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. there is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?' i immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so i said, 'my dear lady elliott, do not be uneasy. the dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.' lady elliott was delighted with the thought. we measured the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. so that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling." elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition. as john dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home. the consideration of mrs. dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while mrs. jennings's engagements kept her from home. the expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. fanny was startled at the proposal. "i do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting lady middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise i should be exceedingly glad to do it. you know i am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. but they are lady middleton's visitors. how can i ask them away from her?" her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her objection. "they had already spent a week in this manner in conduit street, and lady middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such near relations." fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said-- "my love i would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power. but i had just settled within myself to ask the miss steeles to spend a few days with us. they are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and i think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by edward. we can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the miss steeles may not be in town any more. i am sure you will like them; indeed, you _do_ like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with harry!" mr. dashwood was convinced. he saw the necessity of inviting the miss steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing elinor to town as colonel brandon's wife, and marianne as _their_ visitor. fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to lucy, to request her company and her sister's, for some days, in harley street, as soon as lady middleton could spare them. this was enough to make lucy really and reasonably happy. mrs. dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! such an opportunity of being with edward and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! it was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to lady middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days' time. when the note was shown to elinor, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing that lucy wished. her flattery had already subdued the pride of lady middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of mrs. john dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater. the miss steeles removed to harley street, and all that reached elinor of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. sir john, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. mrs. dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called lucy by her christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them. chapter xxxvii mrs. palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the miss dashwoods very ready to resume their former share. about the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in berkeley street, mrs. jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to mrs. palmer, entered the drawing-room, where elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying-- "lord! my dear miss dashwood! have you heard the news?" "no, ma'am. what is it?" "something so strange! but you shall hear it all. when i got to mr. palmer's, i found charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. she was sure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. so i looked at it directly, and, 'lord! my dear,' says i, 'it is nothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same. but charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so mr. donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from harley street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then charlotte was easy. and so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, i am sure i do not know how i happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. so upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'for fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister's indisposition, i think it advisable to say, that i believe there is no great reason for alarm; i hope mrs. dashwood will do very well.'" "what! is fanny ill?" [illustration: _in a whisper._] "that is exactly what i said, my dear. 'lord!' says i, 'is mrs. dashwood ill?' so then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all i can learn, seems to be this. mr. edward ferrars, the very young man i used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out, i am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), mr. edward ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin lucy! there's for you, my dear! and not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except nancy! could you have believed such a thing possible? there is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it! _that_ is strange! i never happened to see them together, or i am sure i should have found it out directly. well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of mrs. ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter: till this very morning, poor nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out. 'lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are all so fond of lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between edward and some lord's daughter or other, i forget who. so you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride. she fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the country. so up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. poor soul! i pity _her._ and i must say, i think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do. mrs. dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon _his_ knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. _then_ she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for mr. donavan, and mr. donavan found the house in all this uproar. the carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and nancy, she was almost as bad. i declare, i have no patience with your sister; and i hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. lord! what a taking poor mr. edward will be in when he hears of it! to have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. i should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!--and mr. donavan thinks just the same. he and i had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back again to harley street, that he may be within call when mrs. ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister was sure _she_ would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what i care. i have no pity for either of them. i have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and greatness. there is no reason on earth why mr. edward and lucy should not marry; for i am sure mrs. ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make the most of every thing; i dare say, if mrs. ferrars would only allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it as any body else would with eight. lord! how snug they might live in such another cottage as yours--or a little bigger--with two maids, and two men; and i believe i could help them to a housemaid, for my betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly." here mrs. jennings ceased, and as elinor had had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that mrs. jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to edward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of marianne, she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it. she could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of edward and lucy. what mrs. ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how edward would conduct himself. for _him_ she felt much compassion;--for lucy very little--and it cost her some pains to procure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all. as mrs. jennings could talk on no other subject, elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing marianne for its discussion. no time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against edward. elinor's office was a painful one. she was going to remove what she really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such particulars of edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion,-and to make marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to _her_ fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. but unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and elinor therefore hastened to perform it. she was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of edward's engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to marianne. her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief. _that_ belonged rather to the hearer, for marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very earnest vindication of edward from every charge but of imprudence, was readily offered. but marianne for some time would give credit to neither. edward seemed a second willoughby; and acknowledging as elinor did, that she _had_ loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! as for lucy steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of edward for her. she would not even admit it to have been natural; and elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind. her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed. marianne's feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. the first question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was-- "how long has this been known to you, elinor? has he written to you?" "i have known it these four months. when lucy first came to barton park last november, she told me in confidence of her engagement." at these words, marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her lips could not utter. after a pause of wonder, she exclaimed-- "four months!--have you known of this four months?" elinor confirmed it. "what!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart?--and i have reproached you for being happy!"-- "it was not fit that you should then know how much i was the reverse!" "four months!" cried marianne again. "so calm! so cheerful! how have you been supported?" "by feeling that i was doing my duty. my promise to lucy, obliged me to be secret. i owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and i owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy." marianne seemed much struck. "i have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother," added elinor; "and once or twice i have attempted it; but without betraying my trust, i never could have convinced you." "four months! and yet you loved him!" "yes. but i did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others was dear to me, i was glad to spare them from knowing how much i felt. now, i can think and speak of it with little emotion. i would not have you suffer on my account; for i assure you i no longer suffer materially myself. i have many things to support me. i am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, i have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther. i acquit edward of essential misconduct. i wish him very happy; and i am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. lucy does not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built. and after all, marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so. edward will marry lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to _her._" "if such is your way of thinking," said marianne, "if the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at. they are brought more within my comprehension." "i understand you. you do not suppose that i have ever felt much. for four months, marianne, i have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. it was told me,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as i thought, with triumph. this person's suspicions, therefore, i have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where i have been most deeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--i have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and again. i have known myself to be divided from edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection. nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me. i have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages. and all this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. if you can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that i have suffered _now._ the composure of mind with which i have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that i have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first. no, marianne. _then_, if i had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely--not even what i owed to my dearest friends--from openly showing that i was _very_ unhappy."-- marianne was quite subdued. "oh! elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever. how barbarous have i been to you!--you, who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me! is this my gratitude? is this the only return i can make you? because your merit cries out upon myself, i have been trying to do it away." the tenderest caresses followed this confession. in such a frame of mind as she was now in, elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise she required; and at her request, marianne engaged never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness;--to meet lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her;--and even to see edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality. these were great concessions;--but where marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make. she performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration. she attended to all that mrs. jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, "yes, ma'am."--she listened to her praise of lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when mrs. jennings talked of edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat. such advances towards heroism in her sister, made elinor feel equal to any thing herself. the next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife. "you have heard, i suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday." they all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech. [illustration: "_you have heard, i suppose._"] "your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. mrs. ferrars too--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but i will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. poor fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. but i would not alarm you too much. donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing. she has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! she says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!--meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence had been placed! it was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. and now to be so rewarded! 'i wish, with all my heart,' says poor fanny in her affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'" here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on. "what poor mrs. ferrars suffered, when first fanny broke it to her, is not to be described. while she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!--such a suspicion could never have entered her head! if she suspected _any_ prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_ quarter. '_there_ to be sure,' said she, 'i might have thought myself safe.' she was quite in an agony. we consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for edward. he came. but i am sorry to relate what ensued. all that mrs. ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. i never thought edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. his mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying miss morton; told him she would settle on him the norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. his own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it." here marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "gracious god! can this be possible!" "well may you wonder, marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. your exclamation is very natural." marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore. "all this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. he would stand to it, cost him what it might." "then," cried mrs. jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent, "he has acted like an honest man! i beg your pardon, mr. dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, i should have thought him a rascal. i have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for lucy steele is my cousin, and i believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband." john dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. he therefore replied, without any resentment-- "i would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. miss lucy steele is, i dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible. and to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as mrs. ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. in short, i do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, mrs. jennings. we all wish her extremely happy; and mrs. ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. it has been dignified and liberal. edward has drawn his own lot, and i fear it will be a bad one." marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and elinor's heart wrung for the feelings of edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward him. "well, sir," said mrs. jennings, "and how did it end?" "i am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:--edward is dismissed for ever from his mother's notice. he left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, i do not know; for _we_ of course can make no inquiry." "poor young man!--and what is to become of him?" "what, indeed, ma'am! it is a melancholy consideration. born to the prospect of such affluence! i cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. the interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on it?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year (for miss morton has thirty thousand pounds,) i cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. we must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him." "poor young man!" cried mrs. jennings, "i am sure he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so i would tell him if i could see him. it is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns." elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form of it. "if he would only have done as well by himself," said john dashwood, "as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. but as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. and there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle _that_ estate upon robert immediately, which might have been edward's, on proper conditions. i left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business." [illustration: _talking over the business._] "well!" said mrs. jennings, "that is _her_ revenge. everybody has a way of their own. but i don't think mine would be, to make one son independent, because another had plagued me." marianne got up and walked about the room. "can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued john, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own? poor edward! i feel for him sincerely." a few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed there was no material danger in fanny's indisposition, and that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it regarded mrs. ferrars's conduct, the dashwoods', and edward's. marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in elinor, and unnecessary in mrs. jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party. chapter xxxviii mrs. jennings was very warm in her praise of edward's conduct, but only elinor and marianne understood its true merit. _they_ only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. elinor gloried in his integrity; and marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his punishment. but though confidence between them was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. elinor avoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of marianne, that belief of edward's continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced between elinor's conduct and her own. she felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope of amendment. her mind was so much weakened that she still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more. nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in harley street, or bartlett's buildings. but though so much of the matter was known to them already, that mrs. jennings might have had enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them within that time. the third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so fine, so beautiful a sunday as to draw many to kensington gardens, though it was only the second week in march. mrs. jennings and elinor were of the number; but marianne, who knew that the willoughbys were again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place. an intimate acquaintance of mrs. jennings joined them soon after they entered the gardens, and elinor was not sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all mrs. jennings's conversation, she was herself left to quiet reflection. she saw nothing of the willoughbys, nothing of edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. but at last she found herself with some surprise, accosted by miss steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of mrs. jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's. mrs. jennings immediately whispered to elinor-- "get it all out of her, my dear. she will tell you any thing if you ask. you see i cannot leave mrs. clarke." it was lucky, however, for mrs. jennings's curiosity and elinor's too, that she would tell any thing _without_ being asked; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt. "i am so glad to meet you;" said miss steele, taking her familiarly by the arm--"for i wanted to see you of all things in the world." and then lowering her voice, "i suppose mrs. jennings has heard all about it. is she angry?" "not at all, i believe, with you." "that is a good thing. and lady middleton, is _she_ angry?" "i cannot suppose it possible that she should." "i am monstrous glad of it. good gracious! i have had such a time of it! i never saw lucy in such a rage in my life. she vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever. look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night. there now, _you_ are going to laugh at me too. but why should not i wear pink ribbons? i do not care if it _is_ the doctor's favourite colour. i am sure, for my part, i should never have known he _did_ like it better than any other colour, if he had not happened to say so. my cousins have been so plaguing me! i declare sometimes i do not know which way to look before them." she had wandered away to a subject on which elinor had nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first. "well, but miss dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what they choose about mr. ferrars's declaring he would not have lucy, for it is no such thing i can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. whatever lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain." "i never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, i assure you," said elinor. [illustration: "_she put in the feather last night._"] "oh, did not you? but it _was_ said, i know, very well, and by more than one; for miss godby told miss sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect mr. ferrars to give up a woman like miss morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for lucy steele that had nothing at all; and i had it from miss sparks myself. and besides that, my cousin richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid mr. ferrars would be off; and when edward did not come near us for three days, i could not tell what to think myself; and i believe in my heart lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all thursday, friday, and saturday, and did not know what was become of him. once lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. however this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for wednesday to harley street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but lucy, and nobody but lucy would he have. and how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all thursday and friday, on purpose to get the better of it. and after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?--he could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. i heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. and it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. i will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry miss morton, or any thing like it. but, to be sure, lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that--oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you know)--she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. so then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. and just then i could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me mrs. richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to kensington gardens; so i was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave edward; so i just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the richardsons." "i do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?" "no, indeed, not us. la! miss dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? oh, for shame!--to be sure you must know better than that. (laughing affectedly.)--no, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all i heard was only by listening at the door." "how!" cried elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? i am sorry i did not know it before; for i certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. how could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "oh, la! there is nothing in _that._ i only stood at the door, and heard what i could. and i am sure lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when martha sharpe and i had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." elinor tried to talk of something else; but miss steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. [illustration: _listening at the door._] "edward talks of going to oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at no. --, pall mall. what an ill-natured woman his mother is, an't she? and your brother and sister were not very kind! however, i shan't say anything against them to _you_; and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than i looked for. and for my part, i was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and i took care to keep mine out of sight. edward have got some business at oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a bishop, he will be ordained. i wonder what curacy he will get! good gracious! (giggling as she spoke) i'd lay my life i know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. they will tell me i should write to the doctor, to get edward the curacy of his new living. i know they will; but i am sure i would not do such a thing for all the world. 'la!' i shall say directly, 'i wonder how you could think of such a thing? i write to the doctor, indeed!'" "well," said elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst. you have got your answer ready." miss steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made another more necessary. "oh, la! here come the richardsons. i had a vast deal more to say to you, but i must not stay away from them not any longer. i assure you they are very genteel people. he makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach. i have not time to speak to mrs. jennings about it myself, but pray tell her i am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and lady middleton the same; and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and mrs. jennings should want company, i am sure we should be very glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes. i suppose lady middleton won't ask us any more this bout. good-bye; i am sorry miss marianne was not here. remember me kindly to her. la! if you have not got your spotted muslin on!--i wonder you was not afraid of its being torn." such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her farewell compliments to mrs. jennings, before her company was claimed by mrs. richardson; and elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. edward's marriage with lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance. as soon as they returned to the carriage, mrs. jennings was eager for information; but as elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. the continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication; and this produced from mrs. jennings the following natural remark:-- "wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how _that_ will end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter mr. steele and mr. pratt can give her. then they will have a child every year! and lord help 'em! how poor they will be!--i must see what i can give them towards furnishing their house. two maids and two men, indeed!--as i talked of t'other day. no, no, they must get a stout girl of all works. betty's sister would never do for them _now._" the next morning brought elinor a letter by the two-penny post from lucy herself. it was as follows: "bartlett's building, march. "i hope my dear miss dashwood will excuse the liberty i take of writing to her; but i know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and my dear edward, after all the troubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed to say that, thank god! though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always be in one another's love. we have had great trials, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness i shall always thankfully remember, as will edward too, who i have told of it. i am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear mrs. jennings, i spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did i, as i thought my duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear mrs. jennings too, trust she will speak a good word for us to sir john, or mr. palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us. poor anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so i say nothing; hope mrs. jennings won't think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her. my paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to sir john, and lady middleton, and the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to miss marianne, "i am, etc., etc." as soon as elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of mrs. jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise. "very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite proper to let him be off if he would. that was just like lucy. poor soul! i wish i _could_ get him a living, with all my heart. she calls me dear mrs. jennings, you see. she is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. very well upon my word. that sentence is very prettily turned. yes, yes, i will go and see her, sure enough. how attentive she is, to think of every body!--thank you, my dear, for showing it me. it is as pretty a letter as ever i saw, and does lucy's head and heart great credit." chapter xxxix the miss dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. she sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could give her ease, barton must do it. elinor was hardly less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, which marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. she began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to elinor altogether much more eligible than any other. the palmers were to remove to cleveland about the end of march, for the easter holidays; and mrs. jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from charlotte to go with them. this would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of miss dashwood;--but it was enforced with so much real politeness by mr. palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure. when she told marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not very auspicious. "cleveland!"--she cried, with great agitation. "no, i cannot go to cleveland."-- "you forget," said elinor gently, "that its situation is not--that it is not in the neighbourhood of--" "but it is in somersetshire. i cannot go into somersetshire. there, where i looked forward to going;--no, elinor, you cannot expect me to go there." elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such feelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on others;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. from cleveland, which was within a few miles of bristol, the distance to barton was not beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their staying above a week at cleveland, they might now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. as marianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started. mrs. jennings was so far from being weary of her guest, that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from cleveland. elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;--and marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that were yet to divide her from barton. "ah! colonel, i do not know what you and i shall do without the miss dashwoods;"--was mrs. jennings's address to him when he first called on her, after their leaving her was settled--"for they are quite resolved upon going home from the palmers;--and how forlorn we shall be, when i come back!--lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats." perhaps mrs. jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself an escape from it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object gained; for, on elinor's moving to the window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes. the effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even changed her seat, on purpose that she might _not_ hear, to one close by the piano forte on which marianne was playing, she could not keep herself from seeing that elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment. still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words of the colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologising for the badness of his house. this set the matter beyond a doubt. she wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it to be the proper etiquette. what elinor said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she did not think _that_ any material objection;--and mrs. jennings commended her in her heart for being so honest. they then talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in marianne's performance brought her these words in the colonel's calm voice,-- "i am afraid it cannot take place very soon." astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to cry out, "lord! what should hinder it?"--but checking her desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation. "this is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older." this delay on the colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, mrs. jennings very plainly heard elinor say, and with a voice which showed her to feel what she said-- "i shall always think myself very much obliged to you." mrs. jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that after hearing such a sentence, the colonel should be able to take leave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without making her any reply!--she had not thought her old friend could have made so indifferent a suitor. what had really passed between them was to this effect. "i have heard," said he, with great compassion, "of the injustice your friend mr. ferrars has suffered from his family; for if i understand the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman. have i been rightly informed?--is it so?--" elinor told him that it was. "the cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,"--he replied, with great feeling,--"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is terrible. mrs. ferrars does not know what she may be doing--what she may drive her son to. i have seen mr. ferrars two or three times in harley street, and am much pleased with him. he is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but i have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, i wish it still more. i understand that he intends to take orders. will you be so good as to tell him that the living of delaford, now just vacant, as i am informed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance--but _that_, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; i only wish it were more valuable. it is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, i believe, did not make more than l per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, i fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting him to it, will be very great. pray assure him of it." elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had the colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. the preferment, which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and _she_, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--her emotion was such as mrs. jennings had attributed to a very different cause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted colonel brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. she thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. but at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. it was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give edward the pain of receiving an obligation from _her_, she would have been very glad to be spared herself; but colonel brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from miss steele. she could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. after this had been settled, colonel brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an evil which elinor, as mrs. jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. "the smallness of the house," said she, "i cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income." by which the colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering mr. ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on, and he said so. "this little rectory _can_ do no more than make mr. ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. i am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. if, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, i must think very differently of him from what i now do, if i am not as ready to be useful to him then as i sincerely wish i could be at present. what i am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. his marriage must still be a distant good;--at least, i am afraid it cannot take place very soon." such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of mrs. jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between colonel brandon and elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. chapter xl "well, miss dashwood," said mrs. jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "i do not ask you what the colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, i _tried_ to keep out of hearing, i could not help catching enough to understand his business. and i assure you i never was better pleased in my life, and i wish you joy of it with all my heart." "thank you, ma'am," said elinor. "it is a matter of great joy to me; and i feel the goodness of colonel brandon most sensibly. there are not many men who would act as he has done. few people who have so compassionate a heart! i never was more astonished in my life." "lord! my dear, you are very modest. i an't the least astonished at it in the world, for i have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "you judged from your knowledge of the colonel's general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "opportunity!" repeated mrs. jennings--"oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. well, my dear, i wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, i think i shall soon know where to look for them." "you mean to go to delaford after them i suppose," said elinor, with a faint smile. "aye, my dear, that i do, indeed. and as to the house being a bad one, i do not know what the colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever i saw." "he spoke of its being out of repair." "well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it? who should do it but himself?" they were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and mrs. jennings immediately preparing to go, said-- "well, my dear, i must be gone before i have had half my talk out. but, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. i do not ask you to go with me, for i dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it." marianne had left the room before the conversation began. "certainly, ma'am, i shall tell marianne of it; but i shall not mention it at present to any body else." "oh! very well," said mrs. jennings rather disappointed. "then you would not have me tell it to lucy, for i think of going as far as holborn to-day." "no, ma'am, not even lucy if you please. one day's delay will not be very material; and till i have written to mr. ferrars, i think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. i shall do _that_ directly. it is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination." this speech at first puzzled mrs. jennings exceedingly. why mr. ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. a few moments' reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed-- "oh, ho! i understand you. mr. ferrars is to be the man. well, so much the better for him. ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and i am very glad to find things are so forward between you. but, my dear, is not this rather out of character? should not the colonel write himself? sure, he is the proper person." elinor did not quite understand the beginning of mrs. jennings's speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "colonel brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to mr. ferrars than himself." "and so _you_ are forced to do it. well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! however, i will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write.) you know your own concerns best. so good-bye, my dear. i have not heard of any thing to please me so well since charlotte was brought to bed." and away she went; but returning again in a moment-- "i have just been thinking of betty's sister, my dear. i should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. but whether she would do for a lady's maid, i am sure i can't tell. she is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. however, you will think of all that at your leisure." "certainly, ma'am," replied elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject. how she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to edward, was now all her concern. the particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of edward himself. he had met mrs. jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that miss dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business. elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. she had not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. he too was much distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment. whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair. "mrs. jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me, at least i understood her so--or i certainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time, i should have been extremely sorry to leave london without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable that i should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. i go to oxford tomorrow." "you would not have gone, however," said elinor, recovering herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person. mrs. jennings was quite right in what she said. i have something of consequence to inform you of, which i was on the point of communicating by paper. i am charged with a most agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.) colonel brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the living of delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable. allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living--it is about two hundred a-year--were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to--as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself--such, in short, as might establish all your views of happiness." what edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him. he _looked_ all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words-- "colonel brandon!" "yes," continued elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, "colonel brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed--for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you--a concern which i am sure marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion." "colonel brandon give _me_ a living!--can it be possible?" "the unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where." "no," replied be, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in _you_; for i cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, i owe it all. i feel it--i would express it if i could--but, as you well know, i am no orator." "you are very much mistaken. i do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and colonel brandon's discernment of it. i have had no hand in it. i did not even know, till i understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. as a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps--indeed i know he _has_, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation." truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. for a short time he sat deep in thought, after elinor had ceased to speak;--at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said-- "colonel brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. i have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother i know esteems him highly. he is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "indeed," replied elinor, "i believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for i understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this." edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "colonel brandon, i think, lodges in st. james street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. elinor told him the number of the house. "i must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you_; to assure him that he has made me a very--an exceedingly happy man." elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "when i see him again," said elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "i shall see him the husband of lucy." and with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. when mrs. jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as elinor appeared. "well, my dear," she cried, "i sent you up the young man. did not i do right?--and i suppose you had no great difficulty--you did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "no, ma'am; _that_ was not very likely." "well, and how soon will he be ready?--for it seems all to depend upon that." "really," said elinor, "i know so little of these kind of forms, that i can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but i suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "two or three months!" cried mrs. jennings; "lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the colonel wait two or three months! lord bless me!--i am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience!--and though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor mr. ferrars, i do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "my dear ma'am," said elinor, "what can you be thinking of? why, colonel brandon's only object is to be of use to mr. ferrars." "lord bless you, my dear! sure you do not mean to persuade me that the colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to mr. ferrars!" [illustration: _both gained considerable amusement_] the deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for mrs. jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as i thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and i think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in barton cottage! it seems quite ridiculous. but, my dear, we must touch up the colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before lucy goes to it." "but colonel brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's being enough to allow them to marry." "the colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. take my word for it, that, if i am alive, i shall be paying a visit at delaford parsonage before michaelmas; and i am sure i shan't go if lucy an't there." elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more. chapter xli edward, having carried his thanks to colonel brandon, proceeded with his happiness to lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached bartlett's buildings, that she was able to assure mrs. jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined mrs. jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in delaford parsonage before michaelmas. so far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give elinor that credit which edward _would_ give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on miss dashwood's part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued. as for colonel brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely resolved to avail herself, at delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry. it was now above a week since john dashwood had called in berkeley street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit. this was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sister's going at all; and mrs. jennings, though her carriage was always at elinor's service, so very much disliked mrs. john dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. the consequence was, that elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tête-à-tête with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike. mrs. dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the house, her husband accidentally came out. he expressed great pleasure in meeting elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in berkeley street, and, assuring her that fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in. they walked up stairs in to the drawing-room. nobody was there. "fanny is in her own room, i suppose," said he:--"i will go to her presently, for i am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to seeing _you._ very far from it, indeed. _now_ especially there cannot be--but however, you and marianne were always great favourites. why would not marianne come?"-- elinor made what excuse she could for her. "i am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for i have a good deal to say to you. this living of colonel brandon's--can it be true?--has he really given it to edward?--i heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it." "it is perfectly true. colonel brandon has given the living of delaford to edward." "really!--well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no connection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a price!--what was the value of this?" "about two hundred a year." "very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that value--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and likely to vacate it soon--he might have got i dare say--fourteen hundred pounds. and how came he not to have settled that matter before this person's death? _now_ indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a man of colonel brandon's sense!--i wonder he should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--well, i am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human character. i suppose, however--on recollection--that the case may probably be _this._ edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it. aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it." elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from colonel brandon to edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority. "it is truly astonishing!"--he cried, after hearing what she said--"what could be the colonel's motive?" "a very simple one--to be of use to mr. ferrars." "well, well; whatever colonel brandon may be, edward is a very lucky man. you will not mention the matter to fanny, however, for though i have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like to hear it much talked of." elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she thought fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished. "mrs. ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and i believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be. when the marriage takes place, i fear she must hear of it all." "but why should such precaution be used? though it is not to be supposed that mrs. ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for _that_ must be quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all? she has done with her son, she cast him off for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast him off likewise. surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him. she would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!" "ah! elinor," said john, "your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature. when edward's unhappy match takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible. mrs. ferrars can never forget that edward is her son." "you surprise me; i should think it must nearly have escaped her memory by _this_ time." "you wrong her exceedingly. mrs. ferrars is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world." elinor was silent. "we think _now_,"--said mr. dashwood, after a short pause, "of _robert's_ marrying miss morton." elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's tone, calmly replied-- "the lady, i suppose, has no choice in the affair." "choice!--how do you mean?" "i only mean that i suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be the same to miss morton whether she marry edward or robert." "certainly, there can be no difference; for robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: i do not know that one is superior to the other." elinor said no more, and john was also for a short time silent. his reflections ended thus. "of _one_ thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and speaking in an awful whisper,--"i may assure you; and i _will_ do it, because i know it must gratify you. i have good reason to think--indeed i have it from the best authority, or i should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say any thing about it,--but i have it from the very best authority,--not that i ever precisely heard mrs. ferrars say it herself--but her daughter _did_, and i have it from her,--that in short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a certain connection, you understand me,--it would have been far preferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that _this_ does. i was exceedingly pleased to hear that mrs. ferrars considered it in that light; a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all. 'it would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound _now_ for nothing worse.' but however, all that is quite out of the question,--not to be thought of or mentioned. as to any attachment you know, it never could be; all that is gone by. but i thought i would just tell you of this, because i knew how much it must please you. not that you have any reason to regret, my dear elinor. there is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well,--quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. has colonel brandon been with you lately?" elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by the entrance of mr. robert ferrars. after a few moments' chat, john dashwood, recollecting that fanny was yet uninformed of her sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with robert, who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart. [illustration: "_of one thing i may assure you._"] they had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to speak of edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to john; and their effect on robert, though very different, was not less striking than it had been on _him._ he laughed most immoderately. the idea of edward's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of edward reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between john smith and mary brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous. elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. it was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him. he was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of her's, but by his own sensibility. "we may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the moment; "but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. poor edward! he is ruined for ever. i am extremely sorry for it; for i know him to be a very good-hearted creature,--as well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. you must not judge of him, miss dashwood, from _your_ slight acquaintance. poor edward! his manners are certainly not the happiest in nature. but we are not all born, you know, with the same powers,--the same address. poor fellow! to see him in a circle of strangers! to be sure it was pitiable enough; but upon my soul, i believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and i declare and protest to you i never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. i could not believe it. my mother was the first person who told me of it; and i, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her,--'my dear madam, i do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, i must say, that if edward does marry this young woman, i never will see him again.' that was what i said immediately. i was most uncommonly shocked, indeed! poor edward! he has done for himself completely,--shut himself out for ever from all decent society! but, as i directly said to my mother, i am not in the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be expected. my poor mother was half frantic." "have you ever seen the lady?" "yes; once, while she was staying in this house, i happened to drop in for ten minutes; and i saw quite enough of her. the merest awkward country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. i remember her perfectly. just the kind of girl i should suppose likely to captivate poor edward. i offered immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late _then_, i found, to do any thing, for unluckily, i was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to interfere. but had i been informed of it a few hours earlier, i think it is most probable that something might have been hit on. i certainly should have represented it to edward in a very strong light. 'my dear fellow,' i should have said, 'consider what you are doing. you are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' i cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found. but now it is all too late. he must be starved, you know, that is certain; absolutely starved." he had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of mrs. john dashwood put an end to the subject. but though _she_ never spoke of it out of her own family, elinor could see its influence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. she even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful. chapter xlii one other short call in harley street, in which elinor received her brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards barton without any expense, and on colonel brandon's being to follow them to cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters in town;--and a faint invitation from fanny, to come to norland whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public, assurance, from john to elinor, of the promptitude with which he should come to see her at delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the country. it amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send her to delaford;--a place, in which, of all others, she would now least choose to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as her future home by her brother and mrs. jennings, but even lucy, when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there. very early in april, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties from hanover square and berkeley street set out from their respective homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. for the convenience of charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their journey, and mr. palmer, travelling more expeditiously with colonel brandon, was to join them at cleveland soon after their arrival. marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in london, and eager as she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and that confidence, in willoughby, which were now extinguished for ever, without great pain. nor could she leave the place in which willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which _she_ could have no share, without shedding many tears. elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive. she had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by willoughby since his marriage, and she looked forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at barton might do towards restoring marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own. their journey was safely performed. the second day brought them into the cherished, or the prohibited, county of somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by turns in marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of the third they drove up to cleveland. cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn. it had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them altogether, interspersed with tall lombardy poplars, shut out the offices. marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the consciousness of being only eighty miles from barton, and not thirty from combe magna; and before she had been five minutes within its walls, while the others were busily helping charlotte to show her child to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its grecian temple, her eye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their summits combe magna might be seen. in such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of agony to be at cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained with the palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles. [illustration: _showing her child to the housekeeper._] she returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house, on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of charlotte,--and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources of merriment. the morning was fine and dry, and marianne, in her plan of employment abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay at cleveland. with great surprise therefore, did she find herself prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. she had depended on a twilight walk to the grecian temple, and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even _she_ could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking. their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. mrs. palmer had her child, and mrs. jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they had left behind, arranged lady middleton's engagements, and wondered whether mr. palmer and colonel brandon would get farther than reading that night. elinor, however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse; and marianne, who had the knack of finding her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a book. nothing was wanting on mrs. palmer's side that constant and friendly good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. the openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh. [illustration: _the gardener's lamentations._] the two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced very low. elinor had seen so little of mr. palmer, and in that little had seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew not what to expect to find him in his own family. she found him, however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to mrs. jennings and charlotte. for the rest of his character and habits, they were marked, as far as elinor could perceive, with no traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life. he was nice in his eating, uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been devoted to business. she liked him, however, upon the whole, much better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she could like him no more; not sorry to be driven by the observation of his epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency on the remembrance of edward's generous temper, simple taste, and diffident feelings. of edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received intelligence from colonel brandon, who had been into dorsetshire lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of mr. ferrars, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to her a great deal of the parsonage at delaford, described its deficiencies, and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them. his behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might very well justify mrs. jennings's persuasion of his attachment, and would have been enough, perhaps, had not elinor still, as from the first, believed marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself. but as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, except by mrs. jennings's suggestion; and she could not help believing herself the nicest observer of the two: she watched his eyes, while mrs. jennings thought only of his behaviour; and while his looks of anxious solicitude on marianne's feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the latter lady's observation,--_she_ could discover in them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover. two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them, where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest, had--assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and stockings--given marianne a cold so violent as, though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself. prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined. though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a cough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely; and it was with difficulty that elinor prevailed on her, when she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies. chapter xliii marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her accustomary employments. but a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, colonel brandon was only astonished at her sister's composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night, trusted, like marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm. a very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation of both; and when marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, elinor was very ready to adopt mrs. jennings's advice, of sending for the palmers' apothecary. he came, examined his patient, and though encouraging miss dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to mrs. palmer, on her baby's account. mrs. jennings, who had been inclined from the first to think marianne's complaint more serious than elinor, now looked very grave on mr. harris's report, and confirming charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant; and mr. palmer, though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be withstood. her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour after mr. harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of mr. palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of bath; whither her husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. mrs. jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which made elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from cleveland as long as marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of material use. poor marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended the whole way by a servant of mrs. jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon. the little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she _then_ really believed herself, that it would be a very short one. the next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no amendment, did not appear worse. their party was now farther reduced; for mr. palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last by colonel brandon to perform his promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, colonel brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise. here, however, the kindness of mrs. jennings interposed most acceptably; for to send the colonel away while his love was in so much uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his stay at cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play at piquet of an evening, while miss dashwood was above with her sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur; especially as mrs. jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by mr. palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise miss dashwood in any emergence. marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements. she knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. it gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of mrs. palmer; and as it gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name. two days passed away from the time of mr. palmer's departure, and her situation continued, with little variation, the same. mr. harris, who attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and miss dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful. mrs. jennings had determined very early in the seizure that marianne would never get over it, and colonel brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to mrs. jennings's forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. he tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see marianne no more. on the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of both were almost done away; for when mr. harris arrived, he declared his patient materially better. her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. elinor, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when marianne would be able to travel. but the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. towards the evening marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before. her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. her sleep, though not so quiet as elinor wished to see it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. mrs. jennings, knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and elinor remained alone with marianne. the repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,-- "is mama coming?--" "not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, i hope, before it is long. it is a great way, you know, from hence to barton." "but she must not go round by london," cried marianne, in the same hurried manner. "i shall never see her, if she goes by london." elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. it was lower and quicker than ever! and marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for mr. harris, and despatching a messenger to barton for her mother. to consult with colonel brandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present. it was no time for hesitation. her fears and her difficulties were immediately before him. her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to attempt the removal of; he listened to them in silent despondence; but her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch mrs. dashwood. elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. she thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to mr. harris, and an order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother. the comfort of such a friend at that moment as colonel brandon--or such a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a summons _could_ be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it. _he_, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might look for his return. not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. the horses arrived, even before they were expected, and colonel brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. it was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the night. it was a night of almost equal suffering to both. hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on marianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on elinor's, before mr. harris appeared. her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow mrs. jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought. marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational. she was on the point of sending again for mr. harris, or if _he_ could not come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after five o'clock--arrived. his opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to elinor. he promised to call again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had found them. with strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their aid, did mrs. jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to elinor, her conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. her heart was really grieved. the rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as marianne, must have struck a less interested person with concern. on mrs. jennings's compassion she had other claims. she had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy. the distress of her sister too, particularly a favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother, when mrs. jennings considered that marianne might probably be to _her_ what charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in _her_ sufferings was very sincere. mr. harris was punctual in his second visit; but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. his medicines had failed; the fever was unabated; and marianne only more quiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor. elinor, catching all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. but he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of miss dashwood. she was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of mrs. jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous indisposition which marianne's disappointment had brought on. elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections. about noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse; she waited, watched, and examined it again and again; and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. mrs. jennings, though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance; and elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. but it was too late. hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what. half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her. others even arose to confirm it. her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered elinor with signs of amendment; and marianne fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze. anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of mr. harris at four o'clock; when his assurances, his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy. marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her entirely out of danger. mrs. jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery. elinor could not be cheerful. her joy was of a different kind, and led to any thing rather than to gaiety. marianne restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude;--but it lead to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. all within elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and strong. she continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every breath. the possibility of a relapse would of course, in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was; but when she saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt. the time was now drawing on, when colonel brandon might be expected back. at ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towards them. the colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely less an object of pity! oh! how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance! at seven o'clock, leaving marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined mrs. jennings in the drawing-room to tea. of breakfast she had been kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much; and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. mrs. jennings would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before her mother's arrival, and allow _her_ to take her place by marianne; but elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary instant. mrs. jennings therefore attending her up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep. the night was cold and stormy. the wind roared round the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not. marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers, they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience. the clock struck eight. had it been ten, elinor would have been convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was the persuasion that she _did_, in spite of the _almost_ impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the truth. she instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her. the flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view. by their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity. never in her life had elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at that moment. the knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage stopped the door,--of her doubt--her dread,--perhaps her despair!--and of what _she_ had to tell! with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm. all that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore staying only till she could leave mrs. jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs. the bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house. she rushed to the drawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only willoughby. [illustration: _opened a window-shutter._] chapter xliv elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication-- "miss dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--i entreat you to stay." "no, sir," she replied with firmness, "i shall _not_ stay. your business cannot be with _me._ the servants, i suppose, forgot to tell you that mr. palmer was not in the house." "had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that mr. palmer and all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the door. my business is with you, and only you." "with me!"--in the utmost amazement;--"well, sir--be quick--and if you can--less violent." "sit down, and i will be both." she hesitated; she knew not what to do. the possibility of colonel brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her. but she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was engaged. after a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. he took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by either. "pray be quick, sir," said elinor, impatiently; "i have no time to spare." he was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her. "your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--"is out of danger. i heard it from the servant. god be praised!--but is it true? is it really true?" elinor would not speak. he repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness. "for god's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?" [illustration: "_i entreat you to stay._"] "we hope she is." he rose up, and walked across the room. "had i known as much half an hour ago--but since i _am_ here,"--speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat,--"what does it signify?--for once, miss dashwood--it will be the last time, perhaps--let us be cheerful together. i am in a fine mood for gaiety. tell me honestly,"--a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, "do you think me most a knave or a fool?" elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. she began to think that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she immediately rose, saying-- "mr. willoughby, i advise you at present to return to combe--i am not at leisure to remain with you longer. whatever your business may be with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow." "i understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm; "yes, i am very drunk. a pint of porter with my cold beef at marlborough was enough to over-set me." "at marlborough!"--cried elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at. "yes,--i left london this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes i have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at marlborough." the steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's recollection-- "mr. willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and i certainly _do_, that after what has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. what is it, that you mean by it?"-- "i mean,"--said he, with serious energy--"if i can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do _now._ i mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though i have been always a blockhead, i have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from ma----, from your sister." "is this the real reason of your coming?" "upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere. "if that is all, you may be satisfied already; for marianne _does_, she has _long_ forgiven you." "has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone. "then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. but she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds. _now_ will you listen to me?" elinor bowed her assent. "i do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own, "how _you_ may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. when i first became intimate in your family, i had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while i was obliged to remain in devonshire, more pleasantly than i had ever done before. your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind--it is astonishing, when i reflect on what it was, and what _she_ was, that my heart should have been so insensible! but at first i must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which i had always been too much in the habit of indulging, i endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection." miss dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying-- "it is hardly worth while, mr. willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject." "i insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "my fortune was never large, and i had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. every year since my coming of age, or even before, i believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old cousin, mrs. smith, was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. to attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, miss dashwood, can ever reprobate too much,--i was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it. but one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, i did not know the extent of the injury i meditated, because i did not _then_ know what it was to love. but have i ever known it? well may it be doubted; for, had i really loved, could i have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or, what is more, could i have sacrificed hers? but i have done it. to avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, i have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing." "you did then," said elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at one time attached to her?" "to have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness! is there a man on earth who could have done it? yes, i found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what i spent with her when i felt my intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. even _then_, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, i allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. i will not reason here--nor will i stop for _you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. the event has proved, that i was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. at last, however, my resolution was taken, and i had determined, as soon as i could engage her alone, to justify the attentions i had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which i had already taken such pains to display. but in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before i could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance--to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. a discovery took place,"--here he hesitated and looked down. "mrs. smith had somehow or other been informed, i imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection--but i need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye,--"your particular intimacy--you have probably heard the whole story long ago." "i have," returned elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him, "i have heard it all. and how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, i confess is beyond my comprehension." "remember," cried willoughby, "from whom you received the account. could it be an impartial one? i acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. i do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that i have nothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because _i_ was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. if the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding--i do not mean, however, to defend myself. her affection for me deserved better treatment, and i often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. i wish--i heartily wish it had never been. but i have injured more than herself; and i have injured one, whose affection for me--(may i say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind--oh! how infinitely superior!" "your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--i must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. you must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence." "but, upon my soul, i did _not_ know it," he warmly replied; "i did not recollect that i had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might have told her how to find it out." "well, sir, and what said mrs. smith?" "she taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. the purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world,--every thing was against me. the matter itself i could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. she was previously disposed, i believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that i had bestowed on her, in my present visit. in short, it ended in a total breach. by one measure i might have saved myself. in the height of her morality, good woman! she offered to forgive the past, if i would marry eliza. that could not be; and i was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. the night following this affair--i was to go the next morning--was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. the struggle was great, but it ended too soon. my affection for marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which i was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. i had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife, if i chose to address her, and i persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. a heavy scene however awaited me, before i could leave devonshire: i was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement. but whether i should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. to see marianne, i felt, would be dreadful, and i even doubted whether i could see her again, and keep to my resolution. in that point, however, i undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for i went, i saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable;--and left her hoping never to see her again." "why did you call, mr. willoughby?" said elinor, reproachfully; "a note would have answered every purpose. why was it necessary to call?" [illustration: "_i was formally dismissed._"] "it was necessary to my own pride. i could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between mrs. smith and myself, and i resolved therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way to honiton. the sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, i found her alone. you were all gone i do not know where. i had left her only the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! a few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and i remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, as i walked from the cottage to allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! but in this, our last interview of friendship, i approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when i told her that i was obliged to leave devonshire so immediately--i never shall forget it--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me! oh, god! what a hard-hearted rascal i was!" they were both silent for a few moments. elinor first spoke. "did you tell her that you should soon return?" "i do not know what i told her," he replied, impatiently; "less than was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was justified by the future. i cannot think of it. it won't do. then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence. thank heaven! it _did_ torture me. i was miserable. miss dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. i owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. well, i went, left all that i loved, and went to those to whom, at best, i was only indifferent. my journey to town--travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own reflections so cheerful--when i looked forward every thing so inviting!--when i looked back at barton, the picture so soothing!--oh, it was a blessed journey!" he stopped. "well, sir," said elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for his departure, "and this is all?" "ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town? that infamous letter? did she show it you?" "yes, i saw every note that passed." "when the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for i was in town the whole time,) what i felt is, in the common phrase, not to be expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any emotion, my feelings were very, very painful. every line, every word was--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid--a dagger to my heart. to know that marianne was in town was, in the same language, a thunderbolt. thunderbolts and daggers! what a reproof would she have given me! her taste, her opinions--i believe they are better known to me than my own, and i am sure they are dearer." elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last. "this is not right, mr. willoughby. remember that you are married. relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear." "marianne's note, by assuring me that i was still as dear to her as in former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. i say awakened, because time and london, business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and i had been growing a fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'i shall be heartily glad to hear she is well married.' but this note made me know myself better. i felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that i was using her infamously. but every thing was then just settled between miss grey and me. to retreat was impossible. all that i had to do, was to avoid you both. i sent no answer to marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her farther notice; and for some time i was even determined not to call in berkeley street; but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, i watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my name." "watched us out of the house!" "even so. you would be surprised to hear how often i watched you, how often i was on the point of falling in with you. i have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. lodging as i did in bond street, there was hardly a day in which i did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. i avoided the middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. not aware of their being in town, however, i blundered on sir john, i believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after i had called at mrs. jennings's. he asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. had he _not_ told me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, i should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. the next morning brought another short note from marianne--still affectionate, open, artless, confiding--everything that could make _my_ conduct most hateful. i could not answer it. i tried--but could not frame a sentence. but i thought of her, i believe, every moment of the day. if you _can_ pity me, miss dashwood, pity my situation as it was _then._ with my head and heart full of your sister, i was forced to play the happy lover to another woman! those three or four weeks were worse than all. well, at last, as i need not tell you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure i cut! what an evening of agony it was! marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me willoughby in such a tone! oh, god! holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face! and sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that was--well, it does not signify; it is over now. such an evening! i ran away from you all as soon as i could; but not before i had seen marianne's sweet face as white as death. _that_ was the last, last look i ever had of her; the last manner in which she appeared to me. it was a horrid sight! yet when i thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that i knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world. she was before me, constantly before me, as i travelled, in the same look and hue." [illustration: "_i have entered many a shop to avoid your sight._"] a short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. willoughby first rousing himself, broke it thus: "well, let me make haste and be gone. your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger?" "we are assured of it." "your poor mother, too!--doting on marianne." "but the letter, mr. willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to say about that?" "yes, yes, _that_ in particular. your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning. you saw what she said. i was breakfasting at the ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. it happened to catch sophia's eye before it caught mine;--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever. affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents. she was well paid for her impudence. she read what made her wretched. her wretchedness i could have borne, but her passion--her malice--at all events it must be appeased. and, in short, what do you think of my wife's style of letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was it not?" "your wife! the letter was in your own hand-writing." "yes, but i had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as i was ashamed to put my name to. the original was all her own--her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. but what could i do! we were engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--but i am talking like a fool. preparation! day! in honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture. and after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched? it must have been only to one end. my business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether i did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance. 'i am ruined for ever in their opinion,' said i to myself; 'i am shut out for ever from their society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.' such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, i copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of marianne. her three notes--unluckily they were all in my pocket-book, or i should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever--i was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. and the lock of hair--that too i had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--all, every memento was torn from me." "you are very wrong, mr. willoughby, very blamable," said elinor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion; "you ought not to speak in this way, either of mrs. willoughby or my sister. you had made your own choice. it was not forced on you. your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. she must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. to treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to marianne--nor can i suppose it a relief to your own conscience." "do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh. "she does not deserve your compassion. she knew i had no regard for her when we married. well, married we were, and came down to combe magna to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. and now do you pity me, miss dashwood? or have i said all this to no purpose? am i,--be it only one degree,--am i less guilty in your opinion than i was before? my intentions were not always wrong. have i explained away any part of my guilt?" "yes, you have certainly removed something--a little. you have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than i had believed you. you have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. but i hardly know--the misery that you have inflicted--i hardly know what could have made it worse." "will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what i have been telling you?--let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as in yours. you tell me that she has forgiven me already. let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. tell her of my misery and my penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever." "i will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification. but you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness." "last night, in drury lane lobby, i ran against sir john middleton, and when he saw who i was, for the first time these two months--he spoke to me. that he had cut me ever since my marriage, i had seen without surprise or resentment. now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to, though probably he did not think it _would_, vex me horridly. as bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that marianne dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at cleveland--a letter that morning received from mrs. jennings declared her danger most imminent--the palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. i was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning sir john. his heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. what i felt on hearing that your sister was dying, and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could i tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? _one_ person i was sure would represent me as capable of any thing. what i felt was dreadful! my resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning i was in my carriage. now you know all." elinor made no answer. her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. the world had made him extravagant and vain--extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. the attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. from a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said-- "there is no use in staying here; i must be off." "are you going back to town?" "no--to combe magna. i have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. good bye." he held out his hand. she could not refuse to give him hers;--he pressed it with affection. "and you _do_ think something better of me than you did?"--said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantelpiece as if forgetting he was to go. elinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished him well--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. his answer was not very encouraging. "as to that," said he, "i must rub through the world as well as i can. domestic happiness is out of the question. if, however, i am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may be something to live for. marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. were i even by any blessed chance at liberty again--" elinor stopped him with a reproof. "well,"--he replied--"once more good bye. i shall now go away and live in dread of one event." "what do you mean?" "your sister's marriage." "you are very wrong. she can never be more lost to you than she is now." "but she will be gained by some one else. and if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, i could least bear--but i will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate good-will, by showing that where i have most injured i can least forgive. good bye,--god bless you!" and with these words, he almost ran out of the room. chapter xlv elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister. willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself--to his wishes than to his merits. she felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge. but she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. when at last she returned to the unconscious marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes. elinor's heart was full. the past, the present, the future, willoughby's visit, marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister. short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage. eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it. mrs. dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost the conviction of marianne's being no more, had no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for elinor; but _she_, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. she was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend; and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press colonel brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment. he shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own. as soon as mrs. dashwood had recovered herself, to see marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger. elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing marianne of farther sleep;--but mrs. dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her. mrs. dashwood _would_ sit up with her all night; and elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. but the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. willoughby, "poor willoughby," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. but her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. she dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on marianne might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a moment wished willoughby a widower. then, remembering colonel brandon, reproved herself, felt that to _his_ sufferings and _his_ constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than mrs. willoughby's death. the shock of colonel brandon's errand at barton had been much softened to mrs. dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about marianne, that she had already determined to set out for cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the careys were then expected every moment to fetch margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection. marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of mrs. dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. elinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected edward. but mrs. dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment which elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. marianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to willoughby, had contributed to place her; and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by elinor. it was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred. "at last we are alone. my elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness. colonel brandon loves marianne. he has told me so himself." her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention. "you are never like me, dear elinor, or i should wonder at your composure now. had i sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, i should have fixed on colonel brandon's marrying one of you as the object most desirable. and i believe marianne will be the most happy with him of the two." elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile. "he opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. it came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. i, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; i saw that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather, not thinking at all, i suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for marianne. he has loved her, my elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her." here, however, elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions of colonel brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose. "his regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant, which ever we are to call it, has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man! and without selfishness, without encouraging a hope! could he have seen her happy with another. such a noble mind! such openness, such sincerity! no one can be deceived in _him._" "colonel brandon's character," said elinor, "as an excellent man, is well established." "i know it is," replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning, i should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it. but his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men." "his character, however," answered elinor, "does not rest on _one_ act of kindness, to which his affection for marianne, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted him. to mrs. jennings, to the middletons, he has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do i value and esteem him, that if marianne can be happy with him, i shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. what answer did you give him? did you allow him to hope?" "oh! my love, i could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. marianne might at that moment be dying. but he did not ask for hope or encouragement. his was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend, not an application to a parent. yet after a time i _did_ say, for at first i was quite overcome, that if she lived, as i trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful security, i have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my power. time, a very little time, i tell him, will do everything; marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as willoughby. his own merits must soon secure it." "to judge from the colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine." "no. he thinks marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. there, however, he is quite mistaken. his age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and his disposition, i am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make your sister happy. and his person, his manners too, are all in his favour. my partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so handsome as willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much more pleasing in his countenance. there was always a something,--if you remember,--in willoughby's eyes at times, which i did not like." elinor could _not_ remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her assent, continued-- "and his manners, the colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to me than willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind i well know to be more solidly attaching to marianne. their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. i am very sure myself, that had willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, marianne would yet never have been so happy with _him_ as she will be with colonel brandon." she paused. her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence. "at delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added mrs. dashwood, "even if i remain at barton; and in all probability,--for i hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly _must_ be some small house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present situation." poor elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to delaford!--but her spirit was stubborn. "his fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares about _that_;--and though i neither know nor desire to know, what it really is, i am sure it must be a good one." here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for willoughby. chapter xlvi marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into mrs. palmer's dressing-room. when there, at her own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother, colonel brandon was invited to visit her. his emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such, as, in elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than his affection for marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance between marianne and eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation. mrs. dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of marianne she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude already dawned. at the end of another day or two, marianne growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, mrs. dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to barton. on _her_ measures depended those of her two friends; mrs. jennings could not quit cleveland during the dashwoods' stay; and colonel brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. at his and mrs. jennings's united request in return, mrs. dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the colonel, at the joint invitation of mrs. dashwood and mrs. jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks. the day of separation and departure arrived; and marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of mrs. jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding colonel brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. mrs. dashwood and elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till mrs. jennings was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young companions; and colonel brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary way to delaford. the dashwoods were two days on the road, and marianne bore her journey on both, without essential fatigue. every thing that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. to elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. she, who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness. as they approached barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. but here, elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. in the whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of willoughby could be connected. she said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. after dinner she would try her piano-forte. she went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing. that would not do. she shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much. the next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. on the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish. "when the weather is settled, and i have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. we will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to sir john's new plantations at barton cross, and the abbeyland; and we will often go the old ruins of the priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. i know we shall be happy. i know the summer will pass happily away. i mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner i shall divide every moment between music and reading. i have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. but there are many works well worth reading at the park; and there are others of more modern production which i know i can borrow of colonel brandon. by reading only six hours a-day, i shall gain in the course of a twelvemonth a great deal of instruction which i now feel myself to want." elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed it. but the resolution was made only to be broken. [illustration: "_and see how the children go on._"] marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. but at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence; and marianne, leaning on elinor's arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house. the sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, marianne calmly said-- "there, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand, "on that projecting mound,--there i fell; and there i first saw willoughby." her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added, "i am thankful to find that i can look with so little pain on the spot! shall we ever talk on that subject, elinor?" hesitatingly it was said. "or will it be wrong? i can talk of it now, i hope, as i ought to do." elinor tenderly invited her to be open. "as for regret," said marianne, "i have done with that, as far as _he_ is concerned. i do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are _now._ at present, if i could be satisfied on one point, if i could be allowed to think that he was not _always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving me; but above all, if i could be assured that he never was so _very_ wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl--" she stopped. elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered-- "if you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy." "yes. my peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what _he_ has been to _me_, of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? what in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to--" "how then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?" "i would suppose him--oh, how gladly would i suppose him!--only fickle, very, very fickle." elinor said no more. she was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till marianne were in stronger health; and they crept on for a few minutes in silence. "i am not wishing him too much good," said marianne at last with a sigh, "when i wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. he will suffer enough in them." "do you compare your conduct with his?" "no. i compare it with what it ought to have been; i compare it with yours." "our situations have borne little resemblance." "they have borne more than our conduct. do not, my dearest elinor, let your kindness defend what i know your judgment must censure. my illness has made me think. it has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. long before i was enough recovered to talk, i was perfectly able to reflect. i considered the past: i saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. i saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. my illness, i well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as i had felt even at the time to be wrong. had i died, it would have been self-destruction. i did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, i wonder at my recovery,--wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my god, and to you all, did not kill me at once. had i died, in what peculiar misery should i have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister! you, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart! how should i have lived in _your_ remembrance! my mother too! how could you have consoled her! i cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. whenever i looked towards the past, i saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. every body seemed injured by me. the kindness, the unceasing kindness of mrs. jennings, i had repaid with ungrateful contempt. to the middletons, to the palmers, the steeles, to every common acquaintance even, i had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention. to john, to fanny, yes, even to them, little as they deserve, i had given less than their due. but you, you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. i, and only i, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself. your example was before me; but to what avail? was i more considerate of you and your comfort? did i imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? no; not less when i knew you to be unhappy, than when i had believed you at ease, did i turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only _that_ heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for i professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake." here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved. marianne pressed her hand and replied-- "you are very good. the future must be my proof. i have laid down my plan, and if i am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved. they shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. i shall now live solely for my family. you, my mother, and margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you. from you, from my home, i shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if i do mix in other society, it will be only to show that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that i can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. as for willoughby--to say that i shall soon or that i shall ever forget him, would be idle. his remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions. but it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment." she paused--and added in a low voice, "if i could but know _his_ heart, everything would become easy." elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact. she managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard. marianne said not a word. she trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. a thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one. she caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks. elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged. as soon as they entered the house, marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her tears, "tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up stairs. elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting injunction. chapter xlvii mrs. dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite. she rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy. but the feelings of the past could not be recalled. nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to marianne. nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards eliza. nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of colonel brandon. had mrs. dashwood, like her daughter, heard willoughby's story from himself,--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater. but it was neither in elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of willoughby's deserts; she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray. in the evening, when they were all three together, marianne began voluntarily to speak of him again; but that it was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously sitting, her rising colour, as she spoke, and her unsteady voice, plainly showed. "i wish to assure you both," said she, "that i see every thing--as you can desire me to do." mrs. dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. marianne slowly continued-- "it is a great relief to me--what elinor told me this morning--i have now heard exactly what i wished to hear."--for some moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before--"i am now perfectly satisfied, i wish for no change. i never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later i must have known, all this. i should have had no confidence, no esteem. nothing could have done it away to my feelings." "i know it--i know it," cried her mother. "happy with a man of libertine practices!--with one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men!--no--my marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man!--her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt." marianne sighed, and repeated, "i wish for no change." "you consider the matter," said elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and i dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain. had you married, you must have been always poor. his expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. his demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the _less_ grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. _your_ sense of honour and honesty would have led you, i know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that--and how little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage? beyond _that_, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge _his_ enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties?" marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "selfish?" in a tone that implied, "do you really think him selfish?" "the whole of his behaviour," replied elinor, "from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. it was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from barton. his own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle." "it is very true. _my_ happiness never was his object." "at present," continued elinor, "he regrets what he has done. and why does he regret it?--because he finds it has not answered towards himself. it has not made him happy. his circumstances are now unembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. but does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?--the inconveniences would have been different. he would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. he would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife." "i have not a doubt of it," said marianne; "and i have nothing to regret--nothing but my own folly." "rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said mrs. dashwood; "_she_ must be answerable." marianne would not let her proceed;--and elinor, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately continued-- "one observation may, i think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story--that all willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to eliza williams. that crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents." marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of colonel brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her. elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following days, that marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health. margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future. elinor grew impatient for some tidings of edward. she had heard nothing of him since her leaving london, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. some letters had passed between her and her brother, in consequence of marianne's illness; and in the first of john's, there had been this sentence:--"we know nothing of our unfortunate edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at oxford"; which was all the intelligence of edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. she was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures. their man-servant had been sent one morning to exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication-- "i suppose you know, ma'am, that mr. ferrars is married." marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. mrs. dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by elinor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by marianne's situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention. the servant, who saw only that miss marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with mrs. dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room. by that time, marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the care of margaret and the maid, returned to elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. mrs. dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it. [illustration: "_i suppose you know, ma'am, that mr. ferrars is married._"] "who told you that mr. ferrars was married, thomas?" "i see mr. ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in exeter, and his lady too, miss steele as was. they was stopping in a chaise at the door of the new london inn, as i went there with a message from sally at the park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. i happened to look up as i went by the chaise, and so i see directly it was the youngest miss steele; so i took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially miss marianne, and bid me i should give her compliments and mr. ferrars's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but however, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you." "but did she tell you she was married, thomas?" "yes, ma'am. she smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. she was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved. so, i made free to wish her joy." "was mr. ferrars in the carriage with her?" "yes, ma'am, i just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking." elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward; and mrs. dashwood probably found the same explanation. "was there no one else in the carriage?" "no, ma'am, only they two." "do you know where they came from?" "they come straight from town, as miss lucy--mrs. ferrars told me." "and are they going farther westward?" "yes, ma'am--but not to bide long. they will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here." mrs. dashwood now looked at her daughter; but elinor knew better than to expect them. she recognised the whole of lucy in the message, and was very confident that edward would never come near them. she observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to mr. pratt's, near plymouth. thomas's intelligence seemed over. elinor looked as if she wished to hear more. "did you see them off, before you came away?" "no, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but i could not bide any longer; i was afraid of being late." "did mrs. ferrars look well?" "yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented." mrs. dashwood could think of no other question, and thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more. mrs. dashwood's and elinor's appetites were equally lost, and margaret might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before. when the dessert and the wine were arranged, and mrs. dashwood and elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. mrs. dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. she now found that she had erred in relying on elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for marianne. she found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be. she feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her elinor; that marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude. chapter xlviii elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself. she now found, that in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope, while edward remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marrying lucy; that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all. but he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence. that he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living, surprised her a little at first. but she soon saw how likely it was that lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay. they were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's. what had edward felt on being within four miles from barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing lucy's message! they would soon, she supposed, be settled at delaford;--delaford,--that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. she saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices; pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of colonel brandon, of mrs. jennings, and of every wealthy friend. in edward, she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see. happy or unhappy, nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him. elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in london would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend. they were all thoughtless or indolent. "when do you write to colonel brandon, ma'am?" was an inquiry which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on. "i wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to hear from him again. i earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day." this was gaining something, something to look forward to. colonel brandon must have some information to give. scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the window. he stopped at their gate. it was a gentleman, it was colonel brandon himself. now she could hear more; and she trembled in expectation of it. but--it was _not_ colonel brandon--neither his air--nor his height. were it possible, she must say it must be edward. she looked again. he had just dismounted;--she could not be mistaken,--it _was_ edward. she moved away and sat down. "he comes from mr. pratt's purposely to see us. i _will_ be calm, i _will_ be mistress of myself." in a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake. she saw her mother and marianne change colour; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. she would have given the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion. not a syllable passed aloud. they all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor. his footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them. his countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for elinor. his complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. mrs. dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy. [illustration: _it was edward._] he coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. elinor's lips had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. but it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather. marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her distress; and margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence. when elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place. it was put an end to by mrs. dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left mrs. ferrars very well. in a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative. another pause. elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said-- "is mrs. ferrars at longstaple?" "at longstaple!" he replied, with an air of surprise. "no, my mother is in town." "i meant," said elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to inquire for mrs. _edward_ ferrars." she dared not look up;--but her mother and marianne both turned their eyes on him. he coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said,-- "perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean mrs.--mrs. _robert_ ferrars." "mrs. robert ferrars!"--was repeated by marianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement;--and though elinor could not speak, even _her_ eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. he rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice-- "perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to--to the youngest--to miss lucy steele." his words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was. "yes," said he, "they were married last week, and are now at dawlish." elinor could sit it no longer. she almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease. edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw, or even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of mrs. dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village, leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden,--a perplexity which they had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures. chapter xlix unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was certain that edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all;--for after experiencing the blessings of _one_ imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of _that_, than the immediate contraction of another. his errand at barton, in fact, was a simple one. it was only to ask elinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air. how soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told. this only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. his situation indeed was more than commonly joyful. he had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits. he was released without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love; and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. he was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness; and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before. his heart was now open to elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four. "it was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the consequence of ignorance of the world and want of employment. had my mother given me some active profession when i was removed at eighteen from the care of mr. pratt, i think, nay, i am sure, it would never have happened; for though i left longstaple with what i thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had i then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, i should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case i must have done. but instead of having any thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to choose any myself, i returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards i had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would have given me; for i was not entered at oxford till i was nineteen. i had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as i had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at longstaple, where i always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly i spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. she was pretty too--at least i thought so _then_; and i had seen so little of other women, that i could make no comparisons, and see no defects. considering everything, therefore, i hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly." the change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night. mrs. dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to love edward, nor praise elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both. marianne could speak _her_ happiness only by tears. comparisons would occur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language. but elinor--how are _her_ feelings to be described? from the moment of learning that lucy was married to another, that edward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil. but when the second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw him honourably released from his former engagement,--saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart. edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of elinor's company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is different. between _them_ no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over. lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard. how they could be thrown together, and by what attraction robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,--a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond her comprehension to make out. to her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle. edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest. elinor remembered what robert had told her in harley street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time. she repeated it to edward. "_that_ was exactly like robert," was his immediate observation. "and _that_," he presently added, "might perhaps be in _his_ head when the acquaintance between them first began. and lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. other designs might afterward arise." how long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting london, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. he put the letter into elinor's hands. "dear sir, "being very sure i have long lost your affections, i have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with him as i once used to think i might be with you; but i scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another's. sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. i can safely say i owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought i would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain-- "your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister, "lucy ferrars." "i have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. please to destroy my scrawls--but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep." elinor read and returned it without any comment. "i will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said edward. "for worlds would not i have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former days. in a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how i have blushed over the pages of her writing! and i believe i may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter i ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style." "however it may have come about," said elinor, after a pause,--"they are certainly married. and your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. the independence she settled on robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. she will hardly be less hurt, i suppose, by robert's marrying lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her." "she will be more hurt by it, for robert always was her favourite. she will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner." in what state the affair stood at present between them, edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. he had quitted oxford within four and twenty hours after lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. he could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with miss dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of colonel brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. it was his business, however, to say that he _did_, and he said it very prettily. what he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives. that lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by thomas, was perfectly clear to elinor; and edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. though his eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions, they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him. "i thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when i was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to assist me. in such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how could i suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most disinterested affection was her inducement? and even now, i cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. she could not foresee that colonel brandon would give me a living." "no; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour; that your own family might in time relent. and at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. the connection was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry _you_ than be single." edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been more natural than lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it. elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy. "your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because--to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to fancy and expect _what_, as you were _then_ situated, could never be." he could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement. "i was simple enough to think, that because my _faith_ was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour. i felt that i admired you, but i told myself it was only friendship; and till i began to make comparisons between yourself and lucy, i did not know how far i was got. after that, i suppose, i _was_ wrong in remaining so much in sussex, and the arguments with which i reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than these:--the danger is my own; i am doing no injury to anybody but myself." elinor smiled, and shook her head. edward heard with pleasure of colonel brandon's being expected at the cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him the living of delaford--"which, at present," said he, "after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he must think i have never forgiven him for offering." _now_ he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place. but so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to elinor herself, who had heard so much of it from colonel brandon, and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject. one question after this only remained undecided, between them, one difficulty only was to be overcome. they were brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain--and they only wanted something to live upon. edward had two thousand pounds, and elinor one, which, with delaford living, was all that they could call their own; for it was impossible that mrs. dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year would supply them with the comforts of life. edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his mother towards him; and on _that_ he rested for the residue of their income. but elinor had no such dependence; for since edward would still be unable to marry miss morton, and his choosing herself had been spoken of in mrs. ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil than his choosing lucy steele, she feared that robert's offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich fanny. about four days after edward's arrival colonel brandon appeared, to complete mrs. dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her living at barton, more company with her than her house would hold. edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and colonel brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters at the park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tête-à-tête before breakfast. a three weeks' residence at delaford, where, in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to barton in a temper of mind which needed all the improvement in marianne's looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to make it cheerful. among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive. no rumour of lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. every thing was explained to him by mrs. dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for mr. ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest of elinor. it would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. their resemblance in good principles and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment. the letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve in elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with less emotion than mirth. mrs. jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor mr. edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at oxford. "i do think," she continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of mrs. ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to plymouth; for lucy it seems borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor nancy had not seven shillings in the world;--so i was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with mrs. burgess, in hopes, as i tell her, to fall in with the doctor again. and i must say that lucy's crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is worse than all. poor mr. edward! i cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to barton, and miss marianne must try to comfort him." mr. dashwood's strains were more solemn. mrs. ferrars was the most unfortunate of women--poor fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder. robert's offence was unpardonable, but lucy's was infinitely worse. neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to mrs. ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. the secrecy with which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage; and he called on elinor to join with him in regretting that lucy's engagement with edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family. he thus continued:-- "mrs. ferrars has never yet mentioned edward's name, which does not surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been received from him on the occasion. perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and i shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to oxford, that his sister and i both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to fanny, and by her shown to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of mrs. ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children." this paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of edward. it determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister. "a letter of proper submission!" repeated he; "would they have me beg my mother's pardon for robert's ingratitude to _her_, and breach of honour to _me_? i can make no submission. i am grown neither humble nor penitent by what has passed. i am grown very happy; but that would not interest. i know of no submission that _is_ proper for me to make." "you may certainly ask to be forgiven," said elinor, "because you have offended;--and i should think you might _now_ venture so far as to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on you your mother's anger." he agreed that he might. "and when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent in _her_ eyes as the first." he had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him, as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to fanny, he should go to london, and personally entreat her good offices in his favour. "and if they really _do_ interest themselves," said marianne, in her new character of candour, "in bringing about a reconciliation, i shall think that even john and fanny are not entirely without merit." after a visit on colonel brandon's side of only three or four days, the two gentlemen quitted barton together. they were to go immediately to delaford, that edward might have some personal knowledge of his future home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town. chapter l after a proper resistance on the part of mrs. ferrars, just so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, edward was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son. her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. for many years of her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of edward, she had one again. in spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before. with apprehensive caution therefore it was revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. mrs. ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying miss dashwood, by every argument in her power; told him, that in miss morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune; and enforced the assertion, by observing that miss morton was the daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while miss dashwood was only the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than _three_; but when she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit; and therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she issued her decree of consent to the marriage of edward and elinor. what she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though edward was now her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while robert was inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest objection was made against edward's taking orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had been given with fanny. it was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by edward and elinor; and mrs. ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more. with an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them, they had nothing to wait for after edward was in possession of the living, but the readiness of the house, to which colonel brandon, with an eager desire for the accommodation of elinor, was making considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, elinor, as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in barton church early in the autumn. the first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;--could choose papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. mrs. jennings's prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit edward and his wife in their parsonage by michaelmas, and she found in elinor and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the world. they had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of colonel brandon and marianne, and rather better pasturage for their cows. they were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations and friends. mrs. ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the dashwoods were at the expense of a journey from sussex to do them honour. "i will not say that i am disappointed, my dear sister," said john, as they were walking together one morning before the gates of delaford house, "_that_ would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. but, i confess, it would give me great pleasure to call colonel brandon brother. his property here, his place, his house,--every thing is in such respectable and excellent condition! and his woods,--i have not seen such timber any where in dorsetshire, as there is now standing in delaford hanger! and though, perhaps, marianne may not seem exactly the person to attract him, yet i think it would altogether be advisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as colonel brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen; for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of anybody else,--and it will always be in your power to set her off to advantage, and so forth. in short, you may as well give her a chance; you understand me." but though mrs. ferrars _did_ come to see them, and always treated them with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her real favour and preference. _that_ was due to the folly of robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many months had passed away. the selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at first drawn robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled mrs. ferrars to his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour. [illustration: _everything in such respectable condition_] the whole of lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and conscience. when robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately visited her in bartlett's buildings, it was only with the view imputed to him by his brother. he merely meant to persuade her to give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle the matter. in that point, however, and that only, he erred; for though lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in _time_, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to produce this conviction. some doubts always lingered in her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour's discourse with himself. his attendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed in course. instead of talking of edward, they came gradually to talk only of robert,--a subject on which he had always more to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother. he was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking edward, and very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. what immediately followed is known. they passed some months in great happiness at dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut--and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages; and from thence returning to town, procured the forgiveness of mrs. ferrars, by the simple expedient of asking it, which, at lucy's instigation, was adopted. the forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only robert; and lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. but perseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in self-condemnation for robert's offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence. lucy became as necessary to mrs. ferrars, as either robert or fanny; and while edward was never cordially forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, _she_ was in every thing considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child. they settled in town, received very liberal assistance from mrs. ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable with the dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between fanny and lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between robert and lucy themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together. what edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have puzzled many people to find out; and what robert had done to succeed to it, might have puzzled them still more. it was an arrangement, however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in robert's style of living or of talking to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange. elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well be contrived, without rendering the cottage at barton entirely useless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with her. mrs. dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at delaford; for her wish of bringing marianne and colonel brandon together was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal than what john had expressed. it was now her darling object. precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see marianne settled at the mansion-house was equally the wish of edward and elinor. they each felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of all. with such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of his goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody else--burst on her--what could she do? marianne dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. she was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. she was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another!--and _that_ other, a man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years before, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat! but so it was. instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting, instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village. colonel brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him, believed he deserved to be;--in marianne he was consoled for every past affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that marianne found her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend. marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had once been to willoughby. willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of mrs. smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he behaved with honour towards marianne, he might at once have been happy and rich. that his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he long thought of colonel brandon with envy, and of marianne with regret. but that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be depended on--for he did neither. he lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy himself. his wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity. for marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her loss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him in after-days as bearing no comparison with mrs. brandon. mrs. dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without attempting a removal to delaford; and fortunately for sir john and mrs. jennings, when marianne was taken from them, margaret had reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being supposed to have a lover. between barton and delaford, there was that constant communication which strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the merits and the happiness of elinor and marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands. the end transcriber's note in the html version of this e-book, midi, pdf, and musicxml files have been provided for the songs. to hear a song, click on the [listen] link. to view a song in sheet-music form, click on the [pdf] link. to view musicxml code for a song, click on the [musicxml] link. all lyrics are set forth in text below the music images. old country life. _by the same author._ =historic oddities and strange events.= demy vo, s. d. [_just published._ =arminell=: =a social romance.= vols., crown vo. [_now ready._ =songs of the west=; ballads and songs of the peasantry of devon and cornwall, with their traditional melodies, by rev. s. baring gould, m.a., and rev. h. fleetwood sheppard, m.a., arranged for voice and pianoforte. parts i. and ii., s. each, _net_. parts iii. and iv. _in-preparation._ =strange survivals and popular superstitions.= [_in preparation._ =yorkshire oddities.= new and cheaper edition. [_in the press._ [illustration: a country dance. _frontispiece._] old country life. by s. baring gould, m.a., author of "mehalah," "john herring," etc. _with illustrations_ by w. parkinson, f. d. bedford, and f. masey. london: methuen and co., , bury street, w.c. philadelphia: j. b. lippincott company. . [_the right of reproduction is reserved._] richard clay & sons, limited, london & bungay. contents. chap. page i. old county families ii. the last squire iii. country houses iv. the old garden v. the country parson vi. the hunting parson vii. country dances viii. old roads ix. family portraits x. the village musician xi. the village bard xii. old servants xiii. the hunt xiv. the county town list of illustrations. head and tail pieces to each chapter by f. d. bedford. page country dance--_frontispiece_ _w. parkinson_ old dames with their factotum butler " " sydenham house, devon _f. masey_ wortham--an empty shell " " grimstone " " madame grym _w. parkinson_ gryms, a group of _from painting_ courtyard, little hempston _f. masey_ house at little hempston " " willsworthy _f. b. bond_ " " plan " " kew palace _f. masey_ tonacombe, north cornwall " " a parlour fireplace _f. b. bond_ garden from tapestry " " flaxley, from a print of _f. d. bedford_ a town house garden front, launceston _f. masey_ old country parsonage, bratton-clovelly _f. d. bedford_ " " parson in cassock _w. parkinson_ parson chowne and sally's young man " " hippoclides before clisthenes " " minuet being danced _w. parkinson_ packman's way _f. d. bedford_ by the road-side " " an old travelling carriage _f. masey_ sir edward, a.d. _j. d. cooper_ n. a.d. " " lady northcote _f. d. bedford_ lady young " " old church orchestra _w. parkinson_ james olver _from photo_ john helmore _f. d. bedford_ richard hard " " the old butler _w. parkinson_ the hunt passing " " south gate, launceston _f. masey_ cottages at woking " " london inn, launceston " " dockacre, " " " " house at launceston " " old cart, slate quarry, lew trenchard _f. d. bedford_ old country life. chapter i. old county families. [illustration] i wonder whether the day will ever dawn on england when our country houses will be as deserted as are those in france and germany? if so, that will be a sad day for england. i judge from germany. there, after the thirty years' war, the nobles and gentry set-to to build themselves mansions in place of the castles that had been burnt or battered down. in them they lived till the great convulsion that shook europe and upset existing conditions social as well as political. napoleon overran germany, and the nobles and gentry had not recovered their losses during that terrible period before the state took advantage of their condition to transfer the land to the peasantry. this was not done everywhere, but it was so to a large extent in the south. money was advanced to the farmers to buy out their landlords, and the impoverished nobility were in most cases glad to sell. they disposed of the bulk of their land, retaining in some cases the ancestral nest, and that only. no doubt that the results were good in one way--but where is a good unmixed? the qualifying evil is considerable in this case. the gentry or nobility--the terms are the same on the continent--went to live in the towns. they could no longer afford to inhabit their country mansions. they acquired a taste for town life, its conveniences, its distractions, its amusements; they ceased to feel interest in country pursuits; they only visited their mansions for about eight weeks in the year, for the _sommer-frische_. those who could not afford to furnish two houses, carted that amount of furniture which was absolutely necessary to their country houses for the holiday, and that concluded, carted it back to town again. this state of things continues. whilst the family is in residence at the schloss it lives economically; it is there for a little holiday; it does not concern itself with the peasants, the sick, the suffering, the necessitous. it is there--_pour s'amuser_. the consequence is that the schloss is without a civilizing influence, without moral force in the place. the country folk have little interest in the family, and the family concerns itself less with the people. not only so, but it brings little money into the place. it employs no labour. it is there not to keep open house, but to shut up the purse. in former days the landlord exacted his rents, but then he lived in the midst of his tenants, and the money that came in as rent went out as wage, and in payment for butter, eggs, meat, oats, and hay. the money collected out of a place returned to it again. it is so in many country places in england now where squire and parson live on the land. in germany the peasant has stepped out of obligation to the landlord into bondage to the jew, who receives, but spends nothing. in france the condition is much the same; the great house is a ruin, and so, very generally, is the family that occupies and owns it, if it still lingers on in it. i remember a stately château of the time of louis xiv., tenanted by two charming old ladies of the _ancienne noblesse_, with grand historic names--the last leaves that fluttered on a great family tree, with roots in the remote past; and they fluttered sere to their fall. they walked out every evening in the park attended by their factotum, an old serving-man, who was butler, coachman, gardener, and major-domo. they kept but one female servant, who was cook, lady's-maid, laundress, and house-maid. the old ladies are dead now, and the roof of the château has fallen in. they had no money to spend on the house or in the village, and never was there a village that more needed the circulation in it of a little coin. great houses, with us, are only tenanted by their owners when the london season is over; but that is for a good deal longer than the german _sommer-frische_; and when the family does come down, it is as rain on a fleece of wool and as the drops that water the earth. it fills the house with guests, and consumes nearly all the market produce of the parish; and at that season, as the people of the place know, money begins to circulate. [illustration: old dames with their factotum butler.] it is not, however, my intention to speak of the great mansions of the nobility, but of those of the squirearchy, who are in residence on their estates all the year round. these houses are elements of considerable blessing to the country. the families of the squires are always in the midst of the people, know the history, and wants, and infirmities of every one. they care for the good of the district. the ladies look after the girls; the squire attends to the condition of the roads and bridges; money is freely spent in the district, and a considerable amount of culture and moral restraint is acquired by those in the classes below, in the farm-houses and the cottages. such only who have been in parishes that have been for generations squireless, and also in those where a resident family has been planted for centuries, can appreciate the difference in general tone among the people. should the time come when the county family will be taken away, then the parish will feel for some time like a mouth from which a molar has been drawn--there will be a vacancy that will cause unrest and discomfort. the molar does not grind and champ to sustain itself alone, but the entire body to which it belongs, and it is much the same with the country squire. [illustration: sydenham house, devon.] in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries there were far more resident gentry in the country than there are at present. the number began to dwindle in the eighteenth century. the registers of parishes are instructive in this respect. in a parish there may have been but a single manor, nevertheless there were in it some three or four gentle families, of as good blood as the lord of the manor, inhabiting bartons. let us take a parish or two as examples. ugborough in south devon has valuable registers dating from . in the sixteenth century we find in them the names of the following families, all of gentle blood, occupying good houses--the spealts, the prideaux, the stures, the fowels, the drakes, the glass family, the wolcombes, the fountaynes, the heles, the crokers, the percivals. in the seventeenth century occur the edgcumbes, the spoores, the stures, the glass family again, the hillerdons, crokers, coolings, heles, collings, kempthornes, the fowells, williams, strodes, fords, prideaux, stures, furlongs, reynolds, hurrells, fownes, copplestons, and saverys. in the eighteenth century there are only the saverys and prideaux; by the middle of the nineteenth these are gone. the grand old mansion of the fowells that passed to the savery family is in chancery, deserted save by a caretaker, falling to ruins. what other mansions there were in the place are now farm-houses. let us take another parish--staverton. that had in it the grand mansion, barkington, of the rowes, who owned other estates in the same parish, in which were settled junior branches of the same family. all have vanished, root and branch. the woolstones had a noble estate there. they are represented now by a clergyman in the neighbourhood. the prestons were estated there also; they are gone, and their place knoweth them no more. my own family had two good houses there, coombe and pridhamsleigh, from the beginning of the sixteenth century. both were sold at the end of last century. the worths of worth had estates and a house there, and have only a fine monument in the church to testify that they ever lived and died there. in another book i have mentioned the instance of bratton-clovelly, where were the coryndons, burnabys, ellacots of ellacot, langfords of langford, calmadys, willoughbys, incledons--all gone, and not one of their houses remaining intact. the country gentry in those days were not very wealthy. they lived very much on the produce of the home farm, and their younger sons went into trade, and their daughters, without any sense of degradation, married yeomen. in south devon, at slapton, lived in state the amerideths, deriving from welsh princes. griffith amerideth was the first to settle in devon; he was a tailor and draper in exeter, and died in . he married a daughter of a very good family, and his son married the eldest daughter of lewis fortescue, one of the barons of the exchequer, and his grandchildren married into the fortescue, rolle and loveys families, all of greatest position and fortune in the west. it has been claimed for the glanvilles that they are of norman extraction; they, however, became tanners at whitchurch, where their tan-pits remain to this day, though their mansion has lost all trace of antiquity. chief justice glanville, who came from this house, and died in , gave it splendour, yet his brother and nephew were not ashamed of the tan-pits, and even allowed a daughter of the house to marry a tavistock blacksmith, and entered him as "faber" in the pedigree they enrolled with the heralds. the courtenays of molland married their daughters to farmers in the place. when, a few years ago, the late earl of devon visited molland, he met a hale old yeoman there named moggridge. he held out his hand to him; "cousin," said he, "jump into the carriage with me, and let us have a drive together; we have not met for one hundred and eighty years." when the woolstones of staverton registered their pedigree, they considered that there was nothing to be ashamed of to enter one daughter as married to a "clothier," another to an "agricola"--a yeoman. it was quite another matter when one of the sons or daughters was guilty of misconduct; then he or she was struck out of the pedigree. i know of one or two little domestic scandals to which the registers bear witness, and i know that in such cases those who have stained the family name have not been recorded in the heralds' book. but that joan who married a blacksmith, or nicolas who was an armourer in london should be cancelled--god forbid! my own conviction is, confirmed by a very close study of parochial registers, that some of the very best blood in england is to be found among the tradesmen of our county towns. i know a little china and glass shop in the market-place of a small country town. the name over the shop is peculiar, but i know that it is one of considerable antiquity. in the reign of henry vii. a jewish refugee settled in cornwall. his son, a barber-surgeon, prospered, and became mayor of liskeard. his children married well, mostly with families of county position, and a son settled in the little town i speak of, where he married one of the honourable family of edgecumbe. and now the lineal descendant of this man, in the male line, keeps a little china shop. i know--what perhaps he does not--his arms, crest, and motto, to which he has just claim. let us take another instance. when the lands of the abbey of tavistock were made over to the russell family, on one of the largest farms or estates that belonged to the abbey was seated a family that had been for a long time hereditary tenants under the abbot. in the same position they continued, only under the russells. in the reign of elizabeth or of james i. they built themselves a handsome residence, with hall and mullioned windows, and laid out the grounds, and dug fish-ponds about this mansion. they also acquired lands of their own; amongst other estates a house that had belonged to the speccots. they produced a sheriff of the county in the eighteenth century. as late as they were seated in their grand old mansion. then--how i cannot tell--there came a collapse. they lost the house and lands they had held since the thirteenth century; the duke of bedford pulled down the house, and the family is now represented by a surgeon, a hairdresser, and a hatter. the coat of arms borne by this family is found in every book of heraldry, it is so remarkable--a woman's breast distilling milk. sir bernard burke, in his _vicissitudes of families_, tells the pathetic tale of the fall of the great baronial family of conyers. the elder line became extinct in , when the baronetcy fell to ralph conyers, chester-le-street, _a glazier_, whose father, john, was grandson of the first baronet. sir ralph intermarried with jane blackiston, the eventual heiress of the blackistons of shieldun, a family not less ancient. his eldest son, sir blackiston conyers, the heir of two ancient houses, derived from them little more than his name. he went into the navy, where he reached the rank of lieutenant, and became on leaving the navy collector of the port of newcastle. he died without a son, and his title and property went to his nephew, sir george, whose mother was a lady of lord cathcart's family. in three years this young fellow squandered the property and died, leaving the barren title to his uncle, thomas conyers, who, after an unsuccessful attempt at a humble business, in his seventy-second year was residing as a pauper in the workhouse of chester-le-street. mr. surtees bestirred himself in his favour, collected a little subscription, which enabled the old baronet to leave the workhouse. this was in , and he died soon after, leaving three daughters married to labouring men in the little town of chester-le-street. i have already mentioned the coryndons of bratton-clovelly. it was a family not of splendour but of antiquity. in , when they registered their pedigree, they began with one roger coryndon, "who cam out of the easterne parts and lived at bratton neere yeares since." there they remained till the beginning of this century, the property passing through the hands of a john coryndon, barber of exeter; a thomas coryndon, a tailor there; and george coryndon, a wheelwright in plymouth dockyard in , whose son in a title-deed signs himself "gentleman," as he was perfectly justified in doing. a family may be ruined by extravagance, but it is not always through ruin that the representatives it a family are to be found in humble or comparatively humble circumstances; but that the junior members of a gentle family went into trade. the occasion of that irruption of false pride relative to "soiling the hands with trade," was the great change that ensued after queen anne's reign. when the trade of the country grew, great fortunes were made in business, at the same time that the landed gentry had become impoverished, first through their losses in the civil war, then by the extravagance of the period of the restoration, together with drinking and gambling. vast numbers of estates changed hands, passed away from the old aristocracy into the possession of men who had amassed fortunes in trade, and it was among the children of these rich retired tradesmen that there sprang up such a contempt for whatever savoured of the shop and the counting-house. i know a horse that had been wont to draw an apple-cart for an itinerant vendor of fruit. he had several admirable points about him, indications that showed he was qualified to make a good carriage-horse. he was bought by a dealer, and sold to a squire. then he was groomed, put into silvered harness, and became a favourite with the ladies as a docile beast to drive in a low carriage. one day as his mistress was taking out a friend in the trap, she told her the story of the horse. at the word "apple-cart" back went the ears of the brute, and he kicked the carriage to pieces. after this it was quite sufficient to visit the stable and to mention "apple-cart" to set the horse kicking. which story may be applied to what has been said about the _nouveaux-riches_ of queen anne's time and trade. it has often struck observers that wherever an important county family has resided for many generations, there are to be found among the poor many families bearing the same name, and it is rashly concluded that these are scions of the ancient stock. it does so happen sometimes that these cottagers represent the old family, but only very rarely. representatives are far more likely to be found as yeomen or tradesmen. the bearing of the name is no guarantee to filiation, even irregular; for it was by no means infrequent for servants to bear their masters' names; and the cottagers bearing the proud names of courtenay, berkley, percy, devereux, probably have not one drop of the noble blood of these families in their veins. but this is a subject to which i will return when speaking about old servants. now let us consider what was the origin of our county families. some have been estated, lords of manors, for many centuries, but these are few and far between. then comes a whole class of men who worked themselves up from being yeomen, small owners into great owners, by thrift and moderation. i know some cases of small holders of land, who have held their little properties for three or four centuries, but who have never advanced in the social scale. others have added field to field, have taken advantage of the improvidence of their neighbours, and have bought them out. then they have risen to become gentry. but the most numerous class is that of the well-to-do merchants, who have bought lands and founded families. in my own county of devon this is the history of the origin of a considerable number of those families which claimed a right to bear arms, and proved their pedigrees before the heralds at the beginning of the seventeenth century. dartmouth, totnes, exeter, bideford, barnstaple--all the great commercial centres--saw the building up of county families. the same process which began in the reign of elizabeth has continued to this day, and will continue so long as the possession of a country house and of acres proves attractive; and may it long so continue, for what else does this mean than the bringing of money into country places, and not of money only, but of intelligence, culture, and good fellowship? one of the most extraordinary phenomena of social history in our land is the way in which the landed aristocracy have become extinct in the male line; how families of note have disappeared, as though engulfed like korah and his company. recklessness of living and ruin will not account for this. it is not that they have parted with their acres that surprises us, but the way in which the families have disappeared, as if snuffed out altogether. it is feasible--i do not say easy--to trace a family of quite ordinary position with certainty through many generations. whoever had any property made a will, or, if he neglected to make a will, had an administration of his effects taken by the next of kin after his death; and will or administration tell us about the man and where he lived. then we refer to the parish registers, and with their assistance get some more information. there are other means by which additional matter may be acquired. thus it is quite possible to draw a pedigree--a genuine, well-authenticated one--of almost any tradesman's or yeoman's family from the time of elizabeth. now lieutenant-colonel vivian has spent infinite pains in tracing the genealogies of those families in the west of england which bore arms, and were accounted gentle at the beginning of the seventeenth century down to the present day. for this purpose he has searched all the wills extant relative to devon and cornwall, and most of the parish registers in these counties. consequently, we can take his conclusions as being as reliable as they can well be made. in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the heralds made periodical visitations of the counties, and noted down the pedigrees of the gentle families, enrolled such as had a right to bear arms, and disqualified as _ignobiles_ such as had assumed the position and arms of a gentleman without legitimate title. in the county of devon there were visitations by the heralds in , , , and , this last was the final visitation made. now in the lists then drawn up appear fourteen gentle families under letter a, forty-seven under b, sixty-three under c. of the fourteen whose names began with a, the aclands alone remain. of the forty-seven whose names began with b, only five remain. of the sixty-three under c, fifty-eight are gone. some few linger on, represented in the female line, but such are not included, though the descendants may have taken the ancient name. how are we to account for this amazing extinction? the families were prolific, but apparently those most prolific most rapidly exhausted their vitality. the arscotts go back to the beginning of the reign of henry vi., and spread over the north of devon. john arscott of arscott, who died in , had eight sons. his eldest son humphry had indeed but two, but of these, the eldest and heir had two, and the second had six; yet in the estates devolved on a daughter. john arscott in had three brothers. of these the next, thomas, married a bligh in , and had four sons. of these the descendants of one alone can be traced to a certain roseclear arscott of holsworthy, who left four sons; all these died without issue. the son and heir is buried at whitchurch, near tavistock, with the laconic entry--"charles arscott, gent., of age, but not worth £ ; buried march, - ." the third of the four--of whom john arscott was the eldest--was richard, who left four sons. of these the second, humphry, was the father of seven, and tristram, the eldest, of two. tristram's family died out in the male line in . of the seven sons of humphry all traces have disappeared. the fourth was john arscott of tetcott, he, like his elder brothers, a man of good estate. his family became extinct in the male line in . the crymes family, of buckland monachorum, was vastly prolific. william crymes, who died in , had _nine_ sons; of these, as far as is known, only three married--william, lewis, and ferdinando. william left but one son; lewis had a son who died in infancy, and that son only; ferdinando had a son of the same name, whose only son died within a year of his birth. ellis crymes, the son of william, and inheritor of the estate, married twice, and had by his first wife, a daughter of sir francis drake, as many as _ten_ sons; by his second wife he had _six_ more. of the ten first only eight had children; and of the offspring of the second batch of six not a single grandchild male lived. in two generations after this prolific ellis with his sixteen sons, the whole family disappears. i do not say that it is absolutely blotted out of the land of the living, but it is no longer represented in the county, nor can it be traced further. i can give an excellent example in my own family, as i have taken great pains to trace all the ramifications. in the visitation of , john gould of coombe in staverton is represented as father of seven sons; and prince, who wrote his _worthies of devon_, published in , in mentioning the family, comments on its great expansion; yet of all these sons, who, one would have supposed, would have half peopled the county, but a single male lineal representative remains, and he is over fifty, and unmarried. the heles were one of the most widely-spread and deeply-rooted families in the west of england. at an assize in exeter in , when matthew hele was high-sheriff, the entire grand-jury, numbering about twenty, was all composed of men of substance and quality, and all bearing the name of hele. where are they now? vanished, root and branch. where are the dynhams, once holding many lordships in devon? gone, leaving an empty shell--their old manor-house of wortham--to show where they had been. in the seventeenth century john bridgeman, bishop of chester, father of sir orlando bridgeman, and ancestor of the earl of bradford, bought the fine old mansion, great levers, that had at one time belonged to the lever family, then had passed to the ashtons. he reglazed his hall window, that was in four compartments, with coats of arms. in the first light he inserted the armorial bearings of the levers, with the motto "_olim_" (formerly); in the next the arms of the ashtons, with the legend, "_heri_" (yesterday); then his own, with the text, "_hodie_" (to-day); and he left the fourth and last compartment without a blazoning, but with the motto, "_cras, nescio cujus_" (whose to-morrow, i know not). [illustration: an empty shell.] possibly one reason for the extinction, or apparent extinction, of the squirarchal families is, that the junior branches did not keep up their connexion with the main family trunk, and so in time all reminiscence of cousinship disappeared; and yet, this is not so likely to have occurred in former times, when families held together in a clannish fashion, as at present. when charles, thirteenth duke of norfolk, had completed his restoration of arundel castle, he proposed to entertain all the descendants of his ancestor, jock of norfolk, who fell at bosworth, but gave up the intention on finding that he would have to invite upwards of six thousand persons. in the reign of james i., lord montague desired leave of the king to cut off the entail of some land that had been given to his ancestor, sir edward montague, chief justice in the reign of henry viii., with remainder to the crown; and he showed the king that it was most unlikely that it ever would revert to the crown, as at that time there were alive four thousand persons derived from the body of sir edward, who died in . in this case the noble race of montague has lasted, and holds the earldom of sandwich, and the dukedom and earldom of manchester. the name of montague now borne by the holder of the barony of rokeby is an assumption, the proper family name being robinson. "when king james came into england," says ward in his _diary_, "he was feasted at boughton by sir edward montague, and his six sons brought up the six first dishes. three of them were lords, and three more knights." fuller in his _worthies_ records that "hester sandys, the wife of sir thomas temple, of stowe, bart., had four sons and nine daughters, which lived to be married, and so exceedingly multiplied, that she saw seven hundred extracted from her body," yet--what became of the temples? the estate of stowe passed out of the male line with hester, second daughter of sir richard temple, who married richard grenville, and she was created countess temple with limitation to the heirs male of her body. there is at present a (sir) grenville louis john temple, great-great-grandson to (sir) john temple, who in assumed the baronetcy conferred upon sir thomas temple of stowe in . this (sir) john, who was born at boston, in the united states, assumed the baronetcy on the receipt of a letter from the then marquis of buckingham, informing him of the death of sir richard temple in ; but the heirship has not been proved, and there exists a doubt whether the claim can be substantiated.[ ] innocent xiii. ( - ) boasted that he had nine uncles, eight brothers, four nephews, and seven grandnephews. he thought, and others thought with him, that the conti family was safe to spread and flourish. yet, a century later, and not a conti remained. in the following chapter i will tell the story of the extinction of a family that was of consequence and wealth in the west of england, owning a good deal of land at one time. the story is not a little curious, and as all the particulars are known to me, i am able to relate it with some minuteness. it affords a picture of a condition of social life sufficiently surprising, and at a period by no means remote. [illustration] footnote: [ ] foster, _baronetage_, . see chaos, p. . chapter ii. the last squire. [illustration] in a certain wild and picturesque region of the west, which commands a noble prospect of dartmoor, in a small but antique mansion, which we will call grimstone, lived for generations a family called grym. this family rose to consequence after the last heralds' visitation, consequently did not belong to the aboriginal gentry of the county. it produced a chancellor, and an archbishop of canterbury. [illustration: grimstone.] the family mansion is still standing, with granite mullioned windows and quaint projecting porch, over which is a parvise. a pair of carved stone gate-posts give access to the turf plot in front of the house. the mighty kitchen with three fireplaces shows that the gryms were a hospitable race, who would on high days feed a large number of guests, and the ample cellars show that they did more than feed them. i cannot recall any library in the house, unless, perhaps, the porch-room were intended for books; if so, it continued to be intended for them only. the first man of note in the family who lived at grimstone was brigadier john grym of the guards, born in , a fine man and a gallant soldier. he had one son, of the same name as himself, a man amiable, weakly in mind, and of no moral force and decision of character. his father and mother were a little uneasy about him because he was so infirm of purpose; they put their heads together, and concluded that the best thing to do for him was to marry him to a woman who had in abundance those qualities in which their son was deficient. now there lived about four miles off, in a similar quaint old mansion, a young lady of very remarkable decision of character. she was poor, and one of a large family. she at once accepted the offer made her in john grym's name by the brigadier and his wife, and became madame john grym, and on the death of the brigadier, madame grym, and despotic reigning queen of grimstone, who took the reins of government into her firm hands, and never let them out of them. the saying goes, when woman drives she drives to the devil, and madame did not prove an exception. the marriage had taken place in ; the husband died six years later, but madame survived till . throughout the minority of her eldest son john, that is to say, for sixteen or seventeen years, she had the entire, uncontrolled management of the property, and she managed pretty well in that time to ruin the estate. she was a litigious woman, always at strife with her neighbours, proud and ambitious. her ambition was to extend the bounds of the property, but she had not the capital to dispose of to enable her to pay for the lands she purchased, and which were mortgaged to two-thirds of their value. she borrowed money at five and six per cent., and bought property with it that rendered only three and a half. [illustration: madame grym.] she attended the parish vestries, where she made her will felt, and pursued with implacable animosity such farmers or landowners as did not submit to her dictation. she drove a pair of ponies herself, but whilst driving had her mind so engaged in her schemes that she forgot to attend to the beasts; they sometimes ran away with her, upset her, and she was found on more than one occasion senseless by the roadside, and her carriage shattered hard by. as her affairs became worse, more and more intricately involved, she began to be alarmed lest she should be arrested for debt. for security she had a house or pavilion erected in which to take refuge should the officers of the law come for her. this had a secret chamber, or well, made in the thickness of the walls, accessible from an upper loft through a trap-door. when she had received warning that she was being looked for, she fled to the loft. the trap was raised, and madame was lowered into the well on a carpet or sheet, then the trap was closed and covered with a mat. she had recourse to this place of concealment on several occasions, and the secret of the hiding-nest was not revealed till after her death. the pavilion still stands, but has been converted into a barn, and all the internal arrangements have been altered. when defeated in an action against a neighbour, on success in which she had greatly set her heart, she brought an action against the lawyer who had conducted her case, charging him with having wilfully understated her claims, withheld evidence, and acted in collusion with the other side. she lost, of course, and being unable to pay costs, escaped to london; there she died. it is said that when the judgment was given against her the church bells were rung, so unpopular had she become. in london she died, and her son, fearing lest her body should be arrested for debt, had her packed in bran, in a grand-piano case, and sent down by water to plymouth, whence it was conveyed by waggon, as a piano, to grimstone. the bill for the packing of madame in bran in a piano case is still extant. the waggoner who drove her in this case from plymouth did not die till the other day. at the time when she was in constant alarm of a warrant and execution, the portable plate of the house, to the weight of about fifty pounds, was daily intrusted to one of the labourers on the farm, who carried it about with him, and when at work put it in the hedge, and threw his jacket over it. on one occasion, when the bailiffs were expected, she was afraid lest her gig should be taken, and before retiring into her well, she had it lifted by ropes and concealed under hay above the stable. [illustration: a group of gryms.] she left two sons, john, the elder, the heir to grimstone, and ralph, the younger. both inherited the self-will, strength of character, and vindictiveness of the mother, but the younger assuredly in double measure. no sooner was she dead, than the brothers flew at each other's throats, or, to be more exact, ralph flew at that of his more fortunate brother, if it can be called fortunate to inherit an encumbered estate, mortgaged almost to its value. ralph instituted a chancery suit against john. the younger brother remained in the parish, residing in another house, and occasionally accompanied his brother john when out shooting, and they met in the hunting-field. one day when they were out rabbiting together, ralph's gun suddenly went off, and riddled his brother's beaver hat. john vowed that a deliberate attempt had been made on his life by his brother. he forbade him his house, and thenceforth would no more associate with him in field sports. ralph before his mother's death had been put in a solicitor's office, but had been dismissed from it for falling on a fellow-clerk with a pistol and attempting to shoot him. john remembered this, and if he mistrusted his brother, it was not altogether without cause. now that he could no longer go to grimstone, and found himself regarded askance by the neighbours, ralph went up to town, where, having connexions in good position, he got introduced into society, and he made the acquaintance of a very charming girl with a small fortune at her own disposal, of six thousand pounds. he was a remarkably handsome young man, with flashing blue eyes, and bold, well-chiselled features, an erect bearing, and a brusque, haughty manner. it is perhaps hardly to be wondered at that, with his personal good looks, and with his indomitable will, he should bear down all opposition on the part of the young lady's friends, and induce her to throw in her lot with him. according to the marriage settlement, half the wife's fortune was to be at his disposal. it is almost unnecessary to say, that he managed to get rid of that within a twelvemonth. thereupon ensued a series of persecutions as mean as they were cruel. his object was to force her to surrender the second three thousand pounds. he attempted to cajole her out of this, and when he failed by this means, he endeavoured to frighten her into submission. to do this he put a pistol under the pillow, and when she was asleep at his side, discharged the pistol over her head. then he pretended that he had missed his mark, but assured her he would not fail another time. she had, fortunately, sufficient resolution to resist intimidation. whether she would have succumbed in the end we cannot say, but, luckily for her, he was arrested for costs in the chancery suit against his brother, and was lodged in the prison of king's bench, where he remained for seven years. bethell, afterwards lord westbury, was counsel against him. ralph grym conducted his own case. every now and then he was brought from prison into court, as some fresh stage of the case was entered upon, and then returned to his detention. one day bethell informed the judge that he moved for an "abatement," owing to the death of one of the parties involved in the suit. this was the first tidings ralph grym received of the decease of his brother-in-law, who with his brother john was party in the suit. his brother now abandoned the action, and ralph was let out of king's bench. he at once returned to the neighbourhood of grimstone, and sent a message to his brother on the very first night of his return that he had a gun; that he was passionately fond of shooting; that for seven or eight years he had been debarred the pleasure; that his hand had become shaky; and that--in all human probability, when he was out shooting, should john come in sight, his gun would go off accidentally, and on this occasion _not_ perforate the beaver. john took the hint and remained indoors, whilst ralph shot when and what he liked over his brother's grounds. but this was a condition of affairs so intolerable, that john deemed it expedient to come to terms with his brother, give him five hundred pounds, and pack him off to london. furnished with this sum, ralph returned to town, and there set up livery stables. he was himself a first-rate rider, and he taught ladies riding, and conducted riding parties in epping forest. he made money by purchasing good-looking horses that were faulty in one or two particulars, at some ten pounds or fifteen pounds, and as his horses were well turned out, and well bred, he had the credit of mounting his customers well. and he was not indisposed to sell some of these for very considerable sums. thus passed three or four years, the happiest in his life, and he might have continued his livery stables, had he not quarrelled with a groom and fought him. he was thrown, and dislocated his hip. this was badly set; it was a long job, and he was never again able to ride comfortably. his business went back, he lost his customers, and failed. then, without a penny in his pocket, he returned to devon, and to the neighbourhood of grimstone, and lodged with the tenants on the estate. utterly ruined in means and in credit, he became a burden to his hosts. they declined to entertain him wholly and severally, so he slept in one farmhouse, and had his meals in one or another of the neighbouring farms. his brother refused to see him, defied his threats, and denied him money. this went on for some time. at length his hosts plainly informed him that he was no longer welcome. he was not an agreeable guest, was exacting, insolent, and violent. they met in consultation, sent round the hat, collected a small subvention; and then a gig was got ready, the money thrust into his hand, and he was mounted in the trap to be driven off to the nearest railway station, where he might take a ticket for london, or jericho. the gig was at the door, and ralph was settling himself into it, when a man, breathless and without a hat, arrived running from grimstone, to say that john grym, his brother, had suddenly fallen down dead. the trap that was to take ralph away now conveyed him to the mansion of his ancestors, to take possession as heir, and he carried off with him the proceeds of the subscription among the tenants. john had died without issue, and intestate. ralph found in the house five hundred pounds in gold, a thousand pounds' worth of stock was on the farm, three hundred pounds' worth of wool was in store, and there was much family plate and some family jewels. ralph's character from this moment underwent a change. when in town he had lived as a prodigal, and squandered his money as it came in, was freehanded and genial. in the year of bloomsbury, when the derby was run in snow, he won three thousand pounds by a bet, when he had not three-halfpence of his own. next year he won on the turf fifteen hundred pounds; but money thus made slipped through his fingers. no sooner, however, was he squire of grimstone than he became a miser, and that so suddenly, that he had to be sued in the county court for the cheap calico he had ordered for a shroud for his brother. he became the hardest of landlords and the harshest of masters. with his wife he was not reconciled. repeated efforts were made by well-intentioned persons to re-unite them. he protested his willingness to receive her, but only on the condition that she made over to him the remaining three thousand pounds of her property. to this condition she had the wisdom not to accede. before he was imprisoned she had borne him a daughter, whom we will call rosalind. he made many attempts to get possession of the child, in the hopes of thereby extorting the money from the mother. before he became squire, mrs. grym lived in a small house near grimstone, on the interest of the three thousand pounds, of course in a very small way. on one occasion she was called to town, and was unable to take little rosalind with her. she accordingly conveyed the child to the house of a neighbouring rector, and entreated that she might be kept there till her return, and be on no account surrendered to the father should he attempt to claim her. a couple of sundays after her departure, between ten and eleven in the morning, ralph grym appeared at the parsonage, and asked to see the rector. he was admitted, and after a little preliminary conversation, stated his desire to have an interview with his child, then aged five. this could not be refused. the little girl was introduced, and ralph talked to her, and played with her. in the meantime the bells for service were ringing. the bell changed to the last single toll, five minutes before divine worship began, and mr. grym made no signs of being in a hurry to depart. the rector, obliged to attend to his sacred duties, drew his son aside, a boy of sixteen, and said to him, "harry, keep your eye on rosalind, and on no account suffer mr. grym to carry her off." the boy accordingly remained at home. "well, young shaver," said ralph, "what are you staying here for?" "my father does not wish me to go to church this morning." "rosalind," said her father, "go, fetch your bonnet, and come a walk with me. i have some peppermints in my pocket." the child, highly elated, got herself ready. henry, the rector's son, also prepared to go out. "young shaver, we don't want you," said ralph, rudely. "my father ordered me to take a walk this morning, sir." "there are two ways--i and rosalind go one, and you the other," said ralph. "my father bade me on no account leave rosalind." ralph growled and went on, the boy following. mr. grym led the way for six miles, and the child became utterly wearied. the father made every effort to shake off the boy. he swore at him, he threatened him, money he had not got to offer him; all was in vain. at last, when the little girl sat down exhausted, and began to cry, the father with an oath left her. "that," said henry, in after life, "was the first time i had to do with ralph grym, and then i beat him." many years after he had again to stand as rosalind's protector against ralph, then striking at his child with a dead hand, and again he beat him. after her mother's death ralph invited his daughter to grimstone, but only with the object of extorting from her the three thousand pounds she had inherited from her mother. when she refused to surrender this, he let her understand that her presence was irksome to him. he shifted the hour of dinner from seven to nine, then to ten, and finally gave orders that no dinner was to be served for a week. still she did not go. "i want your room, rosalind," he said roughly; "i have a friend coming." "the house is large, there are plenty of apartments; he shall have mine, i will move into another." "i want all the rooms." "i see you want to drive me away." "i beg you will suit yourself as to the precise hour to-morrow when you leave." again, after some years, was rosalind invited to grimstone; but it was with the same object, never abandoned. on this occasion, when old ralph found that she was resolute not to surrender the three thousand pounds, he turned her out of doors at night, and she was forced to take refuge at the poor little village tavern. he never forgave her. squire grym was rough to his tenants. one man, the village clerk, had a field of his, and ralph suddenly demanded of him two pounds above the rent the man had hitherto paid. as he refused, ralph abruptly produced a horse-pistol, presented it at the man's head, and said, "put down the extra two pounds, or i will blow your brains out." the clerk was a sturdy fellow, and was undaunted. he looked the squire steadily in the eye, and answered-- "i reckon _her_ (_i. e._ the pistol), though old and risty, won't miss, for if her _does_, i reckon your brains 'll make a purty mess on the carpet." ralph lowered the pistol with an oath, and said no more. he was a suspicious man, and fancied that all those about him conspired to rob him. when he bore a grudge against a man, or suspected him, he required some of his tenants to give evidence against the man; he himself prepared the story they were to swear to, and drilled them into the evidence they were to give. the tenant who refused to do as he bid was never forgiven. he was never able to keep a bailiff over a twelvemonth. when he died, at an age over eighty, in his vindictiveness against his daughter, because she had refused him the three thousand pounds, he left everything of which he was possessed to the bailiff then in his house. how the boy who had saved rosalind from being carried off by her father many years before, and who was now a solicitor, came to her aid, and secured for her something out of the spoils, is history too recent to be told here. thus ended the family of grym of grimstone, and thus did the old house and old acres pass away into new hands. such is the story of the extinction of one family. others have been snuffed out, or have snuffed themselves out, in other ways; strangely true it is, that of the multitudes of old county families that once lived in england, few remain on their paternal inheritance. as i have told the story of the ruin of one family, i will conclude this chapter with that of the saving of another when trembling on the brink of ruin. again i will give fictitious names. the st. pierres were divided into two main branches, the one seated on a considerable estate on the dart, near ashburton, the other on a modest property near the tamar, on the devonshire side. in died edward st. pierre, the last male representative of the elder branch, when he left his property to the representative of the junior, william drake st. pierre. this latter had an only son, edward, and a daughter. he was married to a woman of considerable force of character. on his death in , edward, then aged twenty-six, came in for a very large property indeed; he was in the dragoons, and a dare-devil, gambling fellow. he eloped with a married lady, and lived with her for some years. she died, and was buried at bath abbey. he never married, but continued his mad career till his death. one day he had been gambling till late, and had lost every guinea he had about him. then he rode off, put a black mask over his face, and waylaid the man who had won the money of him, and on his appearance challenged him to deliver. the man recognized him, and incautiously exclaimed, "oh, edward st. pierre! i did not think this of you!" "you know me, do you?" was the reply, and edward st. pierre shot him dead. now there had been a witness, a man who had seen captain edward take up his position, and who, believing him to be a highwayman, had secreted himself, and waited his time to escape. edward st. pierre was tried for the murder. dunning of ashburton, then a rising lawyer, was retained to defend him. it was essential to weaken or destroy the testimony of the witness. dunning had recourse to an ingenious though dishonest device. the murder had been committed when the moon was full, or nearly full, so that in the brilliant white light every object was as clear as by day. dunning procured a pocket almanack, removed the sheet in which was the calendar of the month of the murder, and had it reprinted at the same press, or at all events with exactly similar type, altering the moons, so as to make no moon on the night in question. on the day of trial he left this almanack in his great-coat pocket, hanging up in the ante-room of the court. the trial took place, and the witness gave his evidence. "how could you be sure that the man on horseback was captain st. pierre?" asked the judge. "my lord, the full moon shone on him. i knew his horse; i knew his coat. besides, when he had shot the other he took off his mask." "the full moon was shining, do you say?" "yes, my lord; i saw his face by the clear moonlight." "pass me a calendar. who has got a calendar?" asked the judge. at that time almanacks were not so plentiful as they are now. as it happened no one present had one. then dunning stood up, and said,-- "my lord, i had one yesterday, and i put it, i think, in the pocket of my overcoat. if your lordship will send an apparitor into the ante-room to search my pocket, it may there be found." the calendar was produced--there was no moon. the evidence against the accused broke down, and he was acquitted. this was considered at the time a clever move of mr. dunning; it occurred to no one that it was immoral. captain st. pierre had to pay dunning heavily; in fact, he made over to him a portion of the estate in lieu of paying in cash, and later, when he became further involved, he sold the property to the barings. dunning was created baron ashburton, but the title became extinct with his son, who bequeathed his property to alexander baring, his first cousin, who was elevated to the peerage under the title of baron ashburton, and the st. pierre property now belongs to lord ashburton. captain edward st. pierre died in , without issue, and his sister became his heir; but he had got rid of everything he could get rid of. only the estate near the tamar had been saved from sale by his mother taking it of him on a lease for ninety-nine years. she was residing on it when the news reached her that her good-for-nothing son was dead. he had died at shaldon, near teignmouth, on the th june, and his last request was that he might be carried to bath, and laid by the side of the woman he had wronged. when his mother received the tidings of his death she was in uncertainty what to do. all the last night of june to the dawn of july , she sat in one tall-backed arm-chair, musing what to do with the rest of her life. should she go to bath, and spend the remainder of her days at cards, amusing herself? or should she devote it to a country life, and to repairing the shattered fortunes of the family? when morning broke her mind was made up. she would adopt the nobler, the better cause; and she carried it out to the end. as each farm fell vacant in the parish she took it into her own hands, and farmed it herself, and succeeded so well, that when the rival gentle family in the parish, owning a handsome barton there, fell into difficulties, she bought their estate, so as to make some amends for the loss of the ashburton property. that the chair in which the old lady sat meets with respect _ça va sans dire_. [illustration] chapter iii. country houses. [illustration] what a feature in english scenery is the old country house! compare the seat that has been occupied for many generations with the new mansion. the former with its embowering trees, its lawns and ancient oaks, its avenues of beech, the lofty, flaky scotch pines in which the rooks build, and about which they wheel and caw; and the latter with new plantations, the evidence everywhere present of hedges pulled down, manifest in the trees propped up on hunches of clay. there is nothing so striking to the eye on a return to england from the continent as the stateliness of our trees. i do not know of any trees in europe to compare with ours. it is only with us that they are allowed to grow to advanced age, and die by inches; only with us are they given elbow-room to expand into the full plenitude of their growth. on the continent every tree is known to the police, when it was planted, when it attains its maximum of growth; and then, down it comes. horace walpole had no love of the country--indeed, he hated it, and regarded the months that he spent in norfolk as intolerable. he laments in a letter to sir horace mann (oct. rd, ), that the country houses of the nobility and gentry of england are scattered about in the country, and are not moved up to town, where they would make streets of palaces, like those of the great people of florence, and genoa, and bologna. "think what london would be if the chief houses were in it, as in the cities of other countries, and not dispersed, like great rarity-plums in a vast pudding of country." it is precisely because our most noble mansions are in the country, in a setting of their own, absolutely incomparable, of park and grove, that they are unsurpassed for loveliness anywhere. framed in by pines and deciduous trees, copper beech and silver poplar, with shrubberies of azalea in every range of colour, from scarlet, through yellow to white, and rhododendrons full of bloom from early spring to midsummer, and double cherry, almond, medlar. why, the very framing makes an ugly country house look sweet and homelike. but beautiful as are the parks and grounds about our gentlemen's houses, they are but a remnant of what once was. we see in our old churches, in our mansions, that oak grew in profusion in england at one time, and reached sizes we cannot equal now. great havoc was wrought with the woods and parks in the time of the commonwealth and at the restoration. the finest trees were cut down that ships might be built of them for the royal navy; the commissioners marked and took what trees they would. thus in pepys had to select trees in clarendon park, near salisbury, which the chancellor had bought of the duke of albemarle. very angry the chancellor was at having his park despoiled of his best timber, and pepys gives us in his _diary_ an amusing account of his trouble thereupon. but to come to the houses themselves. is there anything more sweet, peaceful, comfortable than the aspect of an old country house, of brick especially, with brown tiled roof and clustering chimneys backed by woods, with pleasure gardens at its side, and open lawn and park before it? no, its equal is to be found nowhere. the french château, the italian palace, the german schloss are not to be spoken of in the same breath. each has its charm, but there is a coldness and stiffness in the first, a turned-inwardness in the second, and a nakedness in the last that prevent us from associating with them the ideas of comfort and peace. the true english country house is a product of comparatively late times, that is to say, from the reign of henry viii. onwards. before that, the great nobles lived in castles, and the smaller gentry in houses of no great comfort and grandeur. in the parish of little hempston, near totnes, is a perfect mansion of the fourteenth century, probably the original manor-house of the arundels, but given to the church, when it became a parsonage. it is now used as a farm, and a very uncomfortable farm-house it makes. as one of the best preserved houses of that period i know, it deserves a few words. [illustration: courtyard: little hempston:] this house consists of three courts; one is a mere garden court, through which access was had to the main entrance; through this passed the way into the principal quadrangle. the third court was for stables and cattle-sheds. now this house has but a single window in it looking outwards, and that is the great hall window, all the rest look inwards into the tiny quadrangle, which is almost like a well, never illumined by the sun, so small is it. [illustration: house at little hempston: s: devon:] the hall had in it a brazier in the midst, which could never heat it, though the numbed fingers might be thawed at it. adjoining the hall is the ladies' bower, a sitting-room dark as a vault, with indeed a fireplace in it. these were the sole rooms that were occupied by day, the hall and the bower. the arundels had another place at ebbfleet, near stratton, which was no bigger, and only a little less gloomy; the windows were always made, for protection, to look into a court. it was not till after the wars of the roses that there was more light allowed into the chambers. [illustration: a west country manor house:] i give a sketch and plan of a manor-house still almost unaltered, called willsworthy, in the parish of peter tavy in devon. it is built entirely of granite. it has near it a ruined chapel, but what family occupied it and when i do not know; it has not certainly been tenanted by gentlefolks since the reign of henry viii. it was not till the tudor period that the houses of our forefathers became comfortable and cheerful. [illustration: plan of an ancient west-country manor house] we should be wrong, however, if we supposed that in the elizabethan period the windows were designed so much for looking out at as for letting the sun look in at. the old idea of a quadrangle was not discarded, but it was modified. the quadrangle became a pleasant garden within walls; the destruction of the walls to afford vistas was the work of a later age. the normal plan of a house till the reign of elizabeth was the quadrangle; but then, in the more modest mansions, the house itself did not occupy more than a single side of the court, all the rest was taken up with barns and stables, and the windows of the house looked into this great stable-yard. on the side of coxtor, above tavistock, stands an interesting old yeoman's house, built of solid granite, which has remained in the possession of the same worthy family for many generations, and has remained unaltered. this house, in little, shows us the disposition of the old squire's mansion, for the yeoman copied the plan of the house of the lord of the manor. a granite doorway gives admission to the court, surrounded on all sides but the north by stabling. on the north side, raised above the yard by a flight of steps, is a small terrace laid out in flower-beds; into this court all the windows of the house look. we enter the porch, and find ourselves in the hall, with its great fireplace, its large south window, where sits the mistress at her needlework, as of old; and here is the high table, the wall panelled and carved, where sit the yeoman and his family at meals, whilst the labourers sit below. this very simple yet interesting house is quite a fortress; it is walled up against the stormy gales that sweep the moor. it is a prison too, for it catches and holds captive the sunbeams that fall into the bright little court. we are too ready to regard our forefathers as fools, but they knew a thing or two; they were well aware that in england, if we want flowers to blow early and freely, they must be sheltered. it was not till the reign of charles ii. that the fancy came on english people to do away with nooks and corners, and to build oblong blocks of houses without projections anywhere. [illustration: kew palace:] the new italian, or french château style, had its advantages, but its counterbalancing disadvantages. the main advantage was that the rooms were loftier than before; the walls, white and gold, were more cheerful at night; there may have been other advantages, but these are the only two that are conspicuous. the disadvantages were many. in the first place, no shelter was provided out of doors from the wind; no pleasant nooks, no sun-traps. the block of building, naked and alone, stood in the midst of a park, and the wind whistled round it, and the rain drove against it. when the visitor arrived in bad weather, he was blown in at the door, and nearly blown through the hall. in our eagerness to make vistas, obtain extensive landscapes, we have levelled our enclosing walls. but what could have been a sweeter prospect from a hall or parlour window, than an enclosed garden full of flowers, with bees humming, butterflies flitting, and fruit-trees ripening their burdens against old red brick enclosing walls, tinted gorgeously with lichens? there is at present a fashion for being blown about by the wind, so we unmuffle our mansions of their enclosing walls and hedges. but england is a land of wind. nothing strikes an englishman more, when living abroad, than the general stillness of the air. look at the wonderful bulbous spires and cupolas to towers on the continent;--marvellously picturesque they are. if examined, they are found to be very generally covered with the most delicate slate work, that folds in and out of the crinks and crannies, like chain mail. such slating would not endure three winters in england; it would be torn adrift and scattered like autumn leaves before an equinoctial gale. we never had these bulbous spires in england, because the climate would not permit of their construction. our forefathers knew that this was a windy world of ours-- "sing heigh ho for the wind and the rain, for the rain it raineth every day," and they built their houses accordingly--to provide the greatest possible amount of shelter from the cold blasts of march, and from the driving rains of winter. the house originally consisted on the ground-floor of hall, parlour, kitchen, and entrance-porch and stairs. in later times the side wing was carried further back, and a second parlour was built, and the staircase erected between the parlours. at upcott, in broadwood, in devon, is a house that belonged to the upcotts. the plan is much the same as that of willsworthy, even ruder, though the house itself was finer. it had a porch, a hall, and a dairy and kitchen. the parlour is of queen anne's reign, and probably takes the place of one earlier on the same spot. the plan of hurlditch is the same, a mansion of the important family of speccot. there also the parlour is comparatively recent. there was in a house previous to the reign of henry vii. but one good room, and that was the hall. it opened to the roof, and must have been cold enough in winter, and draughty at all times. at wortham, the fine mansion of the dynhams, there was an arrangement, as far as i know, unique--two halls, one for winter with a fire-place in it, serving as a sort of lower story to the summer-hall, clear to the roof--thus one is superposed on the other. tonacombe, a mansion of the leys and kempthornes in morwenstowe parish in cornwall, is a singularly untouched house of a somewhat similar construction, but enlarged. here there was the tiny entrance-court into which the hall looked; the hall itself being open to the roof, with its great fire-place, and the parlour panelled with oak. all other reception-rooms are later additions or alterations of offices into parlours. [illustration: tonacombe: north cornwall.] with the reign of the tudors a great sense of security and an increase of wealth must have come to the country gentry, for they everywhere began to rebuild their houses, to give them more air and light, and completely shook off that fear which had possessed them previously of looking out into the world. then came in an age of great windows. it would seem as though in the rebound they thought they could not have light enough. certainly glass must have been inexpensive in those days. it was the same in the churches; the huge perpendicular windows converted the sacred edifices into lanterns. the old halls open to the roof gave way to ceiled halls, and the newel staircase in the wall--very inconvenient, impossible for the carrying up or down-stairs of large furniture--was discarded for the broad and stately staircase of oak. it seems to me that the loss of shelter that ensued on the abandonment of the quadrangle, or of the e-shaped elizabethan house, is not counterbalanced by the compactness of the square or the oblong block of the queen anne house. moreover, the advantages internally were not so great as might be supposed, for, to light the very lofty room the windows were made narrow and tall; thus shaped they admitted far less sun than when they were broad and not tall. only one who, like myself, has the happiness to occupy a room with a six-light window, twelve feet wide and five feet high, through which the sun pours in and floods the whole room, whilst without the keen march wind is cutting, cold and cruel, can appreciate the blessedness of such a window, can tell the exhilarating effect it has on the spirits, how it lets the sun in, not only through the room, and on to one's book or paper, but into the very heart and soul as well. a long upright narrow window does not answer the purpose for which it was constructed. the light enters the room from the sky, not from the earth, therefore only through the upper portion of a window. the wide window gives us the greatest possible amount of light. if we were but to revert to the elizabethan window, we would find a singular improvement in our health and spirits. our old country houses were, say modern masons, shockingly badly built. "why, sir," said one to me, "do look here at this wall. it is three foot six thick--what waste of room!--and then only the facing is with mortar between the stones, all the rest of the stones are set in clay." i was engaged building my porch when the man said this. so i, convinced by his superior experience, apologized for my forbears, and bade him rebuild with mortar throughout. what was the result? that wall has been to me ever since a worry. the rain beats through it; every course of mortar serves as an aqueduct, and the driving rain against that wall traverses it as easily as if it were a sponge. our old houses were dry within--dry as snuff. now we cannot keep the wet out without cementing them externally. those fools, our forefathers, by breaking the connexion prevented the water from penetrating. do any of my readers know the cosiness of an oak-panelled or of a tapestried room? there is nothing comparable to it for warmth. what the reader certainly does know is, that from a papered wall and from a plate-glass window there is ever a cold current of air setting inwards. he supposes that there is a draught creeping round the walls from the door, or that the window-frame does not fit; and he plugs, but cannot exclude the cold air. but the origin of the draught is in the room itself, and it is created by the fire. the wall is cold and the plate-glass is cold, and the heated atmosphere of the room is lowered in temperature against these cold surfaces, and returns in the direction of the fire as a chill draught. but when the room is lined with oak or with woven woollen tapestry, then the walls are warm, and they give back none of these chill recoil currents. the fire has not the double obligation laid on it of heating the air of the apartment and the walls. in germany and russia during the winter double windows are set up in every room, and by this means a film of warm air is interposed between the heated atmosphere of the room and the external cold air. that our ancestors did not attempt,--plate-glass was not known to them,--but they did what they could in the right direction. they covered the chill stone and plaster walls of the rooms with non-conducting materials. the oak-panelled room was, it can hardly be denied, difficult to light at night, as the dark walls absorbed the candle rays. but that mattered little at a time when every one went to bed with the sun. when later hours were kept, then the oak panels were painted white. but now that we have mineral oils, not to mention gas and electric lighting, we may well scrape off the white paint and restore the dark oak. then, for an evening, the sombre background has quite a marvellous effect in setting off the bright ladies' dresses, and showing off fresh pretty faces. [illustration: an oak-panelled parlour, lew trenchard.] before the reign of elizabeth the staircase was not an important feature in the house. the hall reached to the roof, and the stairs were winding flights of stone steps in turrets, or in the thickness of the wall; when the fashion set in to ceil the halls low, then the staircase became a stately feature of the house. but it was more than a stately feature, it was the great ventilating shaft of the house; it was to the house what the tower is to the church, the chimney by which the stale fumes might pass away. the great staircase window, made up of thousands of little pieces of glass set in lead, acted as a colander through which the outer air streamed in and the inner vitiated air escaped. where there is a central quadrangle, this was in many cases glazed in; then a staircase led to a series of galleries about it, lighted from above, communicating with the several suites of apartments. many of our old inns are thus constructed. the reader will remember the picture of the court of the white hart in _pickwick_, with the first introduction of sam weller. the central court serves as a ventilator to the house, and so does its dwindled representative, the well-staircase. those fools, our forefathers, again, if they shut out the winds and gave shelter to their houses, made ample provision for internal ventilation. what a degraded, miserable feature of the house is the staircase now-a-days, with its steps seven inches instead of four, and the tread nine and a half inches instead of thirteen. it takes an effort to go up-stairs now, it is a scramble; it was an easy, a leisurely, and a dignified ascent formerly. then again, our staircases are narrow--one of four feet is of quite a respectable width; but the old elizabethan staircase measured from six feet to eight feet wide. that of blickling hall, norfolk is seven feet eight inches. there the ascent is single to the first landing; after that the stair branches off, one for the ascent, the other for the descent. the first ascent is of eight steps; then after the main landing, on each side eleven steps to the second landing; then nine more lead to the level of the upper storys and grand corridor. on such staircases as these furniture can be conveyed up and down without damage to the walls, or injury to the furniture. architects who build modern narrow and steep staircases, forget that often a coffin has to be conveyed with its tenant down them; and this can be done neither with convenience nor dignity upon them. but let us think of the staircase on a brighter occasion than a funeral. the grand old flight of steps with its landings, and with sometimes its bay-window with seats in it on one of the landings, how it lends itself to the exigencies of a sitting-out place at a ball. the window is filled with azaleas; the walls hung with full-length family portraits; the broad dark oak stairs are carpeted with crimson; a chandelier pendant from the moulded elizabethan ceiling-drop sheds a soft golden light over the scene; and on the landings, on the steps themselves, sit the dancers after the exertions of a waltz or a galop, enjoying the fresher air, and forming a picture of almost ideal charm. then also it is that the ventilating advantages of the great staircase become most manifest. the dancing has been in the hall, which has become hot; the door on to the stairs is thrown open; there is a circulation of air at once, and in two minutes the atmosphere of the ball-room has renewed itself. in the matter of sleeping arrangements we have certainly made an advance on those of our ancestors. i have already mentioned upcott, which belonged to a family of that name that expired in the reign of henry vii. the hall is small, but has a huge fire-place in it. in the window is a coat of arms, in stained glass, representing upcott impaling an unknown coat, party per pale, argent and sable, three dexter hands couped at the wrist, counterchanged. now this house has or had but a _single_ bedroom. there may have been, and there probably was, a separate apartment for the squire and his wife, over the parlour, which was rebuilt later; but for all the rest of the household there existed but one large dormitory over the hall, in which slept the unmarried ladies of the family, and the maid-servants, and where was the nursery for the babies. all the men of the family, gentle and serving, slept in the hall about the fire on the straw, and fern, and broom that littered the pavement. that house is a very astonishing one to me, for it reveals a state of affairs singularly rude--at a comparatively late period. things were improved in this particular later; bedrooms many were constructed, communicating with each other. at the head of the stairs slept the squire and his wife, and all the rooms tenanted by the rest of the household were accessible only through that. the females, daughters of the house and maid-servants, lay in rooms on one side, say the right, the maids in those most distant, reached through the apartments of the young ladies; those of the men lay on the left, the sons of the house nearest the chamber of the squire, the serving-men furthest off. when the party in the house retired for the night, a file of damsels marched up-stairs, domestic servants first, passed through the room of their master and mistress, then through those of the young ladies, and were shut in at the end; next entered the daughters of the house to their several chambers, the youngest lying near the room of the serving-maids, the eldest most outside, near that of her father and mother. that procession disposed of, a second mounted the stairs, consisting of the men of the house, the stable-boy first, and the son and heir last, and were disposed of similarly to the females, but on the opposite side of the staircase. then, finally, the squire and his wife retired to roost in the chamber that commanded those of all the rest of the household. this arrangement still subsists in our old fashioned farm-houses. now may be understood the odd provision in a will proved in the consistory court of canterbury in (bowyer, f. )--"i give to my son thomas the sole fee-simple and inheritance of my dwelling-house, and all my lands and hereditaments thereto belonging, to him and to his heirs for ever. and my will is, that joan my daughter shall have free _ingress_, _egress_, and _regress_ to the bedd in the chambre where she now lieth, so long as she continueth unmarried." but to this arrangement followed another, more practical and convenient, that of having a grand corridor up-stairs, out of which opened the doors of the bedrooms; or, where there was a glazed-in quadrangle with staircase and landings around it, there the doors of the bedrooms opened from these landings. the corridor was used as a room for dancing, or for music, or for games; it was the recreation place of the house on a rainy day. being up-stairs, and away from library and parlours, the young people might skip, and play blind-man's buff, dance, and disturb no one; nor was there much furniture in these corridors to stand in the way and get knocked over. this corridor is a feature of an old house so very dear to young folks, and so very advantageous to their health, that it is a pity in our modern houses we have got rid of it. a word on the furniture of our old country houses must not be omitted. unfortunately there set in at the beginning of this century a most detestable fashion in furniture, absolutely void of taste; and to make room for the villainous articles then imported into our old country houses, much beautiful old work was turned out, very often was given to servants when they married. the consequence is, that much of it passed into cottages, where it soon got destroyed. it was not only old carved oak that was cast forth, for much of that had been got rid of in the georgian epoch, but even the beautiful polished wood cabinets, chests of drawers, and chippendale chairs of a more recent period. of early furniture, i mean mediæval, little remains in our houses, for one reason, because there was in them very little. the era of furniture was begun with the tudor monarchs; it was all of oak, and the carving was influenced much by holbein, who inspired artists with admiration for german renaissance. cabinets with architectural façades and heavy oak furniture continued in the elizabethan and stuart periods. the date of a chair can be told approximately by the position of the rail binding together the legs. the primary object of this brace was, to hold the legs firmly, but it was also found to possess the not less important advantage of providing a person sitting in the chair with the means of keeping his feet from the cold stone-slabbed pavement. when boarded floors came into fashion, it became no longer necessary to have the front brace of the chair placed so near the floor, and to give more freedom to the feet it was gradually heightened. some time after this the side braces were raised to the same level as the front brace, and later still, as the first necessity for their use was gradually lost sight of, they were dispensed with altogether. this was the first step towards the bad system of construction now almost universally practised, of leaving the legs of chairs without any support at their lower extremities. at the beginning of this century a still further deviation from right principles ensued. the legs of chairs were made to curve, and often to curve in such a manner as to make them unserviceable for supporting the weight reposed upon them. "let us examine an old oak chair, and see how it was constructed. in the first place, we shall find that the whole of the work is executed in solid oak, the uprights forming the back, and the back legs being made of one continuous piece; this at once gives strength and backbone to the whole structure. the framework holding the seat is next securely tenoned, and pinned with oaken pegs into the four legs, thus binding the whole of the parts firmly together. even at this stage we have a far more strongly constructed piece of work than the modern chair when quite completed; the old workman, however, not content with this, next turned his attention to the weakest part of all--the feet of the chair--and securely fastened them together about three or four inches from the floor with four strong braces, tenoning each brace at both ends into the legs of the chair, and securing it, as before, with oaken pegs. this last addition made the whole a perfectly strong and almost indestructible piece of framing, and constitutes one of the most essential differences in the construction of ancient and modern furniture. the legs of most modern chairs are made to depend entirely for strength on their hold, _at one end_, to the framing of the seat of the chair, into which they are generally only glued. the legs of the ancient chair, on the other hand, are secured at _both ends_; and the four braces connecting them together act as struts as well as ties; they form an admirable protection against any blow the chair may receive at its lower extremities. many of the old chairs constructed on these excellent principles are now in good condition, after nearly two hundred years of daily use."[ ] in mediæval times there were trestles and boards for a dining-table; but in chaucer's time fixed tables were coming into use. he tells how that in the rich and luxurious franklin's house there were-- "alle deyntees that men cowde thynke, * * * * * his table dormant in his halle alway stood redy covered al the longe day." the "table dormant" was used only by very rich people; it was a new fashion at the close of the fourteenth century, and was expensive. it took its name from the fact that it was slept upon at night; it served as a bed for one of the men who lay in the hall. this table consisted of a single long trestle with a plank on it. it had but two legs, one at each end, and a beam between supported by struts. but at the same time that these tables came into fashion, another variety was in use, supported by a pair of short trestles at each end. the top of this table was also formed of planks, but they were hinged together so as to be easily folded up and removed, when additional space was required. a table of this kind is referred to by shakespeare in _romeo and juliet_, when, as capulet enters the hall with his guests, he exclaims-- "come, musicians, play. a hall! a hall! give room, and foot it, girls. more light, you knaves; and turn the tables up." a remarkably cleverly constructed table of the reign of elizabeth exists at slade in south devon. it is based on the plan of the table dormant, but is convertible into a settle when no longer required as a table; the planking rests on the settle arms when serving for a board, and slides back and assumes an erect position when required as a settle back. a "drawing-table" was a third variety. it was one that was square framed, but could be drawn out at both ends, so as to nearly double its normal length. in a paper on 'our household furniture,' contributed to the _art journal_ by mr. g. t. robinson, an illustration of one of these tables is given; and in speaking of the ingenuity displayed in the construction of the sliding leaves, he says, "the whole mechanism is admirably considered for the purpose it has to fulfil. indeed its adaptation for its purpose was so good that the principle was long retained; and sheraton, so late as the commencement of the present century, advocates its use for many writing or other tables, and gives the rule for finding the exact rake of the slides, and the technical details of all the other parts." it is difficult to understand why so admirable and simple an arrangement was abandoned, for anything more clumsy and unsatisfactory than the method adopted in our modern dining-room tables for accomplishing a similar result can hardly be imagined.[ ] the only modern examples i have seen are some manufactured by a firm in brussels (wattier, steenpoort). i confess that i look back with regret to the old highly polished mahogany table for dessert. the modern system of covering the table with white, and strips of coloured silk, and setting it with sprigs of ferns and flowers is very pretty, but then for the sake of this prettiness we are letting the polish of our tables go down. hardly anywhere now does the butler care to keep up the polish of the table; he used to take a pride in it, now he knows that it is never seen. yet i know of two or three old country houses into which the russian fashion has not penetrated, and where even to this day the mahogany is shown, and shines like a mirror. "hail, good comrades, every one, round the polished table; pass the bottle with the sun, drink, sirs! whilst ye're able. life is but a little span, full of painful thinking; let us live as fits a man, no good liquors blinking!" so sang our grandfathers; but the song has gone out with the polished table, and with the polished table the quiet enjoyable drinking of good port and sherry after the retirement of the ladies. the cigarette is lighted--and who can enjoy port with the air full of its perfumes?--and no sooner is the wine begun to be appreciated, than the tray of coffee is presented, dug into the side, as a reminder that now-a-days the pleasant hour with good wine and agreeable male companions is cut down to a quarter of an hour--has gone out of fashion, along with the polished table, and we must away into the drawing-room to talk empty nothingnesses, and listen to bad music. but we must not spend too much time over tables and chairs. marquetry became the fashion under william and mary, when upright clocks, bureaux, and chairs were thus decorated. under louis xiv. a new style of decoration was introduced by one andré charles buhl, who gave his name to it. he was chief upholsterer to the king, and his rich and brilliant marquetry of tortoise-shell and brass, so combined as to form figures and subjects, was extensively used in the furnishing of the new palace at versailles. the fashion extended to england, and where tortoise-shell was not employed, the ground was gilt, then painted over with black, leaving a pattern in gold uncovered, and the whole was washed over with a reddish-brown lacquer, which gave the effect of tortoise-shell. spaces thus treated were relieved by raised work in wood carved and gilt in relief, in representation of buhl's brass work. we find this chiefly in mirror and picture-frames. then followed the reign of louis xv., the age of _rococo_, of shell-shaped curves set against each other back to back. it may have been barbarous, but it was rich and beautiful. then walls were painted white and picked out with gold, the clearest, most brilliant, turquoise-blues and rose-carmines came in. painters devoted themselves to the decoration of panels in the walls of rooms and to ceilings, the _dessus-de-portes_, over-doors, generally in chiaroscuro, shepherds and shepherdesses, nymphs, cherubs. there was a certain amount of sombreness in the old elizabethan house, in the dark oak panelling, in the olive-greens of the tapestry, that was distasteful to the merry men of the epoch from charles ii. to the first georges, and they set themselves to make their interiors as sparkling with gold and brilliant colour as possible on a white instead of a dark ground. the discovery of pompeii caused a return to a simpler style of decoration, to purer forms; and marquetry furniture was manufactured in exotic woods, enriched with ormolu mountings. paintings were executed on copper and let into chimney-pieces, of great delicacy and charm. chippendale, heppelwhite, and sheraton are names associated with the mahogany furniture of the last century, with tables with pierced galleries, chairs with open strap work backs, cabinets of graceful curves, all of admirable workmanship. indeed cabinet-making never attained a higher degree of delicacy and perfection than at this period. i would point to some of the bureaux of this date as real marvels of workmanship. and look at the backs of the chairs--a good chippendale chair has the upright curled back at the top, in a manner remarkable for beauty, and right in principle, for it exposes no sharp angles to suffer from a blow. the satin-wood furniture, some of it with medallions painted on it, sideboards, work-tables, chiffoniers, sometimes only decorated with delicate garlands of laurel or bay painted or inlaid on the satin-wood, is not to be disregarded. the only furniture that cannot be loved is that of the first thirty years of this century, when it violated all true principles of construction, and manifested neither invention nor taste in design. before leaving the consideration of old country houses, one word must be said about their _setting_. we now-a-days, when we build a mansion, look out for the top of a hill, a good windy, exposed spot. it never occurs to us that half the charm of a house consists in the way in which it is framed. the mediæval germans lived on the tops of rocks, but then their houses were castles, partly for defence, and partly because they knew what was fit to be done. artistically, they made these castles eminently picturesque with towers and gables that cut the sky. we do not now build castles, but--well, the word is suitable--boxes; and a box looks like a box on the top of a hill against the sky, and nothing can make it look other. our english forefathers, in their sense of security, and in their love of sun and shelter, sought out a hillside, and built their mansions so as to have rising ground behind it, to back it, and where they had not a hill, there they had a wood of tall trees. a house thus set is like a picture in a frame, a pretty face in a real bonnet. i do not think that ladies who, in pursuance of a vile fashion, wear hats, can be aware of the loss of charm to the face. let them take an ancestral portrait out of its frame, and hang it thus naked against the wall. they will see at once that the frame insulates it, draws attention to its beauties and enhances them. it is the same with a house. it may be good architecturally, but unless it be backed up by a green hill covered with wood, tall scotch pines, the haunt of rooks, umbrageous beech, in autumn trees of gold, it is nothing but an architectural study. how naked, how forlorn a dear old house looks that has lost its timber that surrounded it! i know one or two old mansions that have been converted into farm-houses, and their rear-guard of timber hewn down and sold. there is a broken-hearted look about them that reminds one of a carriage-horse degraded to go in a cart. it feels its degradation, loses flesh, gloss, and spirit. i was one day walking with an old friend whom fate doomed to live abroad all his life, but whose heart was ever in his native land. we were strolling near an old mansion, in its park, when he stopped, looked at it, and said, "ye gentlemen of england, that dwell at home at ease--and in what ease! in what peace and beauty! indeed, i think that, as in all the world there is not a type of man nobler, better, more complete in every way than the true english gentleman, so do i think that nowhere--not approachably even, anywhere--is there to be found a house like the old english country house." and in my heart i responded, amen--it is so. [illustration] footnotes: [ ] _examples of carved oak woodwork_, by w. bliss sanders. london: . [ ] mr. bliss saunders gives details of one of these in the work above referred to. chapter iv. the old garden. [illustration] just before the breaking forth of the french revolution, the abbé de lille composed a poem in four cantos, entitled _les jardins_, in which he enthusiastically urged the abandonment of all formality in the laying out of a garden, and the adoption of the new english style of irregularity. "avant de planter, avant que du terrain votre béche imprudente entame le sein, pour donnez aux jardins une forme plus pure, observez, connoissez, imitez la nature." an agreeable wildness--that was what was to be sought. the revolution came in, and hacked the gardens about, and reduced them all to the state of wildness. what the abbé de lille wrote against was the artificiality of the garden arrangement that had been in vogue till then. horace walpole had already written in the same strain. a rage had set in in england for remodelling the gardens, and the new fashion was called "english gardening." pliny the younger, in his delightful letters, speaks of his gardens. as his laurentine villa was his winter retreat, it is not surprising that the gardens there take no prominent part of his account. all he says of them is, that the _gestatio_, or exercise ground, surrounded the garden, and was bounded by a box-hedge; where the box had perished, there were planted tufts of rosemary. he mentions his vine-walk and his trees, mostly mulberry and fig, as the soil was unsuited for other trees. on his tuscan villa he is more diffuse; the garden takes up a good part of the description. he tells of the strange shapes into which his box-trees were clipped, his slopes, his terraces, shrubs methodically trimmed, a marble basin, fountain, a cascade, bay-trees alternating with plane-trees, a long straight walk, from which branched off others hedged by apple-trees in espalier, and by box, and ornamented with obelisks. something like a rural view was, indeed, contrived amidst so much artificiality, but was speedily forgotten amidst the stiff lines of box and the trimmed cypresses. in the paintings of herculaneum we see the representations of gardens; they are square enclosures, formed by trellis-work and espaliers, and regularly ornamented with vases, fountains, and statues, elegantly symmetrical. now this arrangement of a garden continued in italy. it never changed, and the villa gardens in and about rome to this day reproduce the plans and character of those that flourished there in the classic age. the villa-gardens in and about rome! i cannot write the words without an ache of heart, for i know that they are disappearing rapidly, inevitably. along the via salaria i saw three in process of destruction during the late winter and spring of . a great slice of the borghese grounds is being devastated to make room for hideous streets and squares. the wolkonski gardens have been curtailed; those of villa massimo arsoli adjoining, almost destroyed and built over; the rospigliosi gardens gone; others doomed; the glorious ludovisi gardens, with their cypresses and ilexes towering above the closed porta pinciana and the ancient boundary wall, are in process of extermination. "the grounds, which were of an extent extraordinary when considered as being within the walls of a capital, were laid out by le nôtre, and were in the stiff french style of high-clipped hedges, and avenues adorned with vases and sarcophagi. with the fury against trees which characterizes italians, all the magnificent ilexes and cypresses were cut down as soon as the land was secured, and the plots of building-land rendered altogether hideous and undesirable. in a few years not a trace will remain of the picturesque glories of this once noble villa, which, if acquired by the municipality, who refused to purchase it, might have been made into public gardens of beauty unrivalled in any european capital."[ ] the railway station, with its sheds and sidings, occupies the once matchless gardens of the villa massimo negroni, celebrated for its exquisite cypress avenues and its stately terrace, lined with ancient orange-trees and noble sarcophagi. the ground was confiscated by the state, and the destruction of this fair scene broke the heart of the owner, prince massimo. the sweet gardens of the villa strozzi are gone, now built over with ugly houses. outside the porta pia grand old gardens are being devastated also. the medici gardens remain; hawthorn thus described them. "they are laid out in the old fashion of straight paths, with borders of box, which form hedges of great height and density, and are shorn and trimmed to the evenness of a wall of stone at the top and sides. there are green alleys, with long vistas, overshadowed by ilex-trees; and at each intersection of the paths the visitor finds seats of lichen-covered stone to repose on, and marble statues that look forlornly at him, regretful of their lost noses. in the more open portions of the gardens, before the sculptured front of the villa, you see fountains and flower-beds; and, in their season, a profusion of roses, from which the genial sun of italy distils a fragrance to be scattered abroad by the no less genial breeze." the boboli gardens at florence remain to testify to the ancient arrangement, with high walls of evergreens and long avenues hedged up ten or twelve feet, dense and impervious, above which rise the spires of cypress and the domes of the stone-pine. [illustration: garden from tapestry.] our english gardens were modelled on those of the italian palaces, the same subdivision of squares into sections, with trimmed box enclosing them, and with a statue or a fountain, or a carved and shaped yew in the midst. the gardens were invariably enclosed within walls. where the ground sloped, at great expense it was shaped into terraces, reached by flights of steps. the greatest exactness in the design was aimed at. as pope observed-- "each alley has a brother, and half the garden just reflects the other." when pamela endured her persecution she was allowed to walk in the garden, but this was so walled round that escape from it was impossible. there were seats in it on which she might repose in the sun. there was a fish-pond in which she might angle, but there was only one garden-door by which egress could be obtained, and that was locked. it was the same with clarissa harlowe. the garden of her father's house was walled round. the pleached alleys were constructed of lime or beech trees platted and trimmed so as to form walls of green. they were over-arched, and those walking in them were as in a green bower. i know an old château on the moselle with such a _berceau_, it has in it windows commanding beautiful reaches of the river; otherwise it is completely enclosed by leaves, and fresh and sweet it is as a walk on a hot day. in england we required shade less than shelter, and the green funnels were not in such request as the long lines of lofty yew or box hedge. in king's _views of the seats of our nobility and gentry_, at the beginning of the eighteenth century, we see the utmost formality. every house is approached by two or three gardens, consisting perhaps of a gravel-walk and two grass-plats, or borders of flowers. each rises above the other by two or three steps, and as many walls and terraces, and so many iron gates. [illustration: flaxley, from a print of .] sir william temple gives us his view of what constituted a perfect garden in his day. "the perfectest figure of a garden i ever saw, either at home or abroad, was that of moor park, in hertfordshire. i will describe it for a model to those that meet with such a situation, and are above the regards of common expense. it lies on the side of a hill, upon which the house stands, but not very steep. the length of the house, where the best rooms and of most use or pleasure are, lies upon the breadth of the garden; the great parlour opens into the midst of a terrace gravel-walk that lies even with it, and which may lie about three hundred paces long, and broad in proportion; the border set with standard laurels and at large distances, which have the beauty of orange-trees out of flower and fruit. from this walk are three descents by many stone steps, in the middle and at each end, into a very large parterre. this is divided into quarters by gravel-walks, and adorned with two fountains and eight statues, at the several quarters. at the end of the terrace-walk are two summer-houses, and the sides of the parterre are ranged with two large cloisters open to the garden; over these two cloisters are two terraces covered with lead and fenced with balusters; and the passage into these airy walks is out of the two summer-houses at the end of the first terrace-walk. the cloister facing the south is covered with vines. from the middle of the parterre is a descent by many steps into the lower garden, which is all fruit-trees, ranged about the several quarters of a wilderness, which is very shady; the walks here are all green, and there is a grotto embellished with figures of shell rock-work, fountains, and water-works." nothing could be more formal, and nothing, i think, could be more charming. why should we imitate wild nature? the garden is a product of civilization. why any more make of our gardens imitation wild nature, than paint our children with woad, and make them run about naked in an effort to imitate nature unadorned? the very charm of a garden is that it is taken out of savagery, trimmed, clothed, and disciplined. the wall and hedge are almost necessaries with us, to cut off the wind. see how flowers of all kinds luxuriate, if given the screen from the biting blast! if they like it, why should not we? i allow that the hacking of trees into fantastical shapes deserved the scourge administered in the one hundred and seventy-third number of _the guardian_, sept. th, . the writer there says--"how contrary to simplicity is the modern practice of gardening; we seem to make it our study to recede from nature, not only in the various tonsure of greens into the most regular and formal shapes, but even in monstrous attempts beyond the reach of the art itself; we run into sculpture, and are yet better pleased to have our trees in the most awkward figures of men and animals, than in the most regular of their own. a citizen is no sooner proprietor of a couple of yews, but he entertains thoughts of erecting them into giants, like those of guildhall. i know an eminent cook, who beautified his country-seat with a coronation dinner in greens, where you see the champion flourishing on horseback at one end of the table, and the queen in perpetual youth at the other. "for the benefit of all my loving countrymen of this curious taste, i shall here publish a catalogue of greens to be disposed of by an eminent town gardener, who has lately applied to me upon this head. my correspondent is arrived at such perfection, that he cuts family pieces of men, women, or children. any ladies that please may have their own effigies in myrtle, or their husbands in horn-beam. i shall proceed to his catalogue, as he sent it for my recommendation. "'adam and eve in yew; adam a little shattered by the fall of the tree of knowledge in the great storm, eve and the serpent very flourishing. "'the tower of babel, not yet finished. "'st. george in box; his arm scarce long enough, but will be in condition to strike the dragon by next april. "'a queen elizabeth in phylyræa, a little inclining to the green-sickness, but of full growth. "'an old maid-of-honour in worm-wood. "'divers eminent poets in bays, somewhat blighted, to be disposed of a pennyworth. "'a quickset hog shot up into a porcupine, by its being forgot a week in rainy weather,' &c." but these absurdities do not affect the question of hedges. i know a hedge of clay and stone built up eight feet, and above that crowned with holly and thorn, running from east to west, but with a point or two of west in its face. i remember an old man, a rector, chronically affected with bronchitis for fifteen years, who felt the solace of this charming hedge through the whole time. he could crawl out there when the sun shone, and disregard the north and east winds. in that hedge the primrose and the foxglove were out prematurely. the rabbits loved it dearly, and made it untidy with their burrowings in the warm dry clay under the roots of the bushes. if a ruthless craving for vistas had not prevailed in and after horace walpole's time, every one of our country houses and parsonages would have had these sweet sheltered walks, where invalids could creep along and bask in the sun. we have had them demolished, and so must away to the riviera. evelyn had a great holly hedge in his garden at sayes court, four hundred feet in length, five feet in diameter, and nine feet high; and when the court was let to the czar peter, during his visit to the deptford dockyard, that barbarian drove his wheel-barrow through it, and so injured the hedge that evelyn claimed damages, and received one hundred and fifty pounds in compensation. another charming feature of the old garden--and one that was costly to execute--was the terrace. the slope of the hillside was taken in hand and was cut away, so as to produce a level lawn with a level, horizontal terrace-walk above it, and perhaps, where the slope admitted of it, a second and superior terrace. these terrace walls gave shelter, and as walks were always dry, the drainage from them being rapid. trees, shrubs, flowers planted on them throve; there was no stagnation of water about their roots, and the sun, striking against the wall that enclosed the earth for their roots, made it warm, cherishing to the plants, as a hot bottle is a comfort to you who suffer from cold feet in your bed. nowhere have i seen roses so revel, go mad with delight and gratitude as in these terrace gardens. the rose is peculiarly averse to wet feet. see how the wild rose thrives in the clay-banked-up hedge!--a hedge that seems to have no moisture in it, the earth of which crumbles between the finger and thumb like snuff. then, again, the rose hates wind, and the terrace wall serves as a screen to it against its enemy. and--for human roses! last summer i attended a garden-party at an ancient country house with an old-fashioned garden. from the lawn in front of the porch a flight of granite steps led to a terrace nine feet above the lawn. this terrace was planted with venerable yew-trees, under which were little tables spread with fruit and cool drinks, and cakes. a second flight of steps gave access to a second terrace some twelve or fourteen feet higher, planted with flowers, and backed to the north by a lofty garden wall. i do not think that, off the stage, i have seen any effect more beautiful than that of the young girls in their bright and many-tinted summer dresses, flitting about; some under the shade of the yews on terrace number one, some looking at the flowers a stage higher, on terrace number two, and some ascending and others descending the broad flight of steps that led to these terraces, like the angels in jacob's vision. [illustration: a town-house garden front, launceston.] the walls supporting the terraces served another purpose than that of sustaining the roots of trees and flowers on the stages; as rain fell on the terraces, it exuded between the joints of the stones and nourished a fairy world of lichen, moss, and ferns. this was the wall shaded by the yews. the other was hugged and laughed over by roses, honeysuckle, and wisteria. we have got almost no gardens left in england in their primitive condition, only the wreckage of their beauty. but, as the old woman said who sniffed the empty amphora of old falernian wine, "if what remains be so good, what must you have been when full!" now let us see what horace walpole tells us of the devastation of these beautiful old gardens. "no succeeding generation," he says, "in an opulent and luxurious country contents itself with the perfection established by its ancestors; more perfect perfection was still sought, and improvements had gone on, till london and wise had stocked all our gardens with giants, animals, monsters, coats of arms and mottoes, in yew, box, and holly. bridgman, the next fashionable designer of gardens, was far more chaste--he banished verdant sculpture, and did not even revert to the square precision of the foregoing age. he enlarged his plans, disdained to make every division tally to its opposite, and though he still adhered much to straight walks with high-clipped hedges, they were only his great lines; the rest he diversified by wilderness, and with loose groves of oak, though still within surrounding hedges. as his reformation gained footing, he ventured to introduce cultivated fields and even morsels of forest appearance, by the sides of those endless and tiresome walks. "but the capital stroke, the leading step to all that has followed,"--i shiver as i write these words,--"_was the destruction of walls for boundaries_, and the invention of fosses--an attempt then deemed so astonishing, that the common people called them ha! ha's! to express their surprise at finding a sudden and unperceived check to their walk. no sooner was this simple enchantment made, than levelling, mowing, and rolling followed. the contiguous ground of the park without the sunk fence was to be harmonized with the lawn within; and the garden in its turn was to be set free from its prim regularity, that it might assort with the wilder country without. at that moment appeared kent, painter enough to taste the charms of landscape, bold and opinionative enough to dare and to dictate, and born with a genius to strike out a great system from the twilight of imperfect essays." the man kent deserved the gallows much more than many who have been hung. no one who pretended to be in fashion dared to maintain a hedge or a wall. down went the walls, and the beautiful roses bent their heads and died; the great yew hedges were stubbed up, and the delicate children and feeble old gentlemen who had basked under the lea, also, like the roses, stooped to earth and died. all the shelter, sweetness, sun, restfulness went away. these hedges had taken a century and more to grow, they were levelled without compunction, never perhaps again to reappear.[ ] no doubt there was folly in our forefathers in trimming yews into fantastical shapes; but kent and his followers were as extravagant in their way. kent actually planted _dead_ trees in lawns and parks, to give a greater air of reality to the scene. where he was allowed he cut down, or mutilated avenues, because unnatural; but just as unnatural were his absurd vistas, dug through woods so that the eye might reach a pagoda, an obelisk, or a temple at the end. a traveller in france in , on the eve of the revolution, gives an account of the garden of ermenonville, laid out by m. de girardin on the english system. "he has succeeded better in closely imitating the steps of nature than any spot i have ever seen; nothing seems laboured, nothing artificial. the ground is irregular, and the ornaments rude, though the latter approach to too great an excess. i can see no reason, if ornaments are to be made use of in such places as these (which in itself is a deviation from nature), why they should not be handsome. to see a miserable obelisk built of brick, and resembling more a chimney than a monument, is carrying the refinement of wildness to too high a pitch. if they are designed to be rude and natural, they may at the same time be grotesque and elegant. winding along a lovely walk, through the bosom of a young wood, a gentle stream meandering by its side, we reached a charming and retired spot. a large space here opens, shaded by the thick branches of the trees, which just leave room for a softened light to insinuate itself, and for the zephyrs to breathe through; over interrupting rocks and heaps of pebbles, the water dashes along with a noise grateful and composing. here an altar is erected, sacred to reverie; on a rock that overhangs the stream are inscribed some pleasing lines. hence through a varied and highly pleasing path we continued our route along the grove, meeting with different inscriptions. from thence we ascended the forest, and traversing a path rugged and grotesque, were presented with many interesting and pleasing views. arriving on the plain, in the bosom of a wood, we reached an extended area, in the midst of which stood a large oak, and at the end an edifice."[ ] i had written thus far, when last night there came to see me an old village singer of nigh on eighty years, always to me a welcome guest. i seated him by the fireside on a settle, and we fell to talking about gardens, when he said, "i reckon, your honour, i know a rare old-fashioned song about flowers and gardings, and them like. if your honour 'ud plase to hear me, i'll zing 'n." then he struck up the following quaint ballad, to an air certainly two hundred years old-- [music: "in a garden sweet." _arranged by_ f. w. bussell, esq., m.a.] two lovers in a garden sweet were walking side by side, i heard how he the maid addressed, i heard how she replied. the garden it was very great, with box trees in a row; and up and down the gravell'd walk these lovers fond did go. "said he, 'i prithee fix the day whereon we shall be wed.' said she, 'thou hast a wanton mind, i like thee not,' she said. 'for now you look at brown nancy, and dark eyes pleasure you; but next declare you like the fair julian with eyes of blue.' "'o pretty maid, in garden sweet, are flowers in each parterre, i turn and gaze with fond amaze at all--for all are fair. but one i find--best to my mind, of all i choose but one; i stoop and gather that choice flower, and wear that flower alone.'" [illustration] footnotes: [ ] hare, _walks in rome_. [ ] having got rid of the wall, and finding that flowers now suffer from the wind, gardeners are fond of _sinking_ beds, and not a few gardens are thus furnished. [ ] _a reflective tour through part of france._ london: . chapter v. the country parson. [illustration] of no class of men can it be more truly said that the good they do dies with them, and that the evil lives--in the memory of men--than the country parson. of the thousands of old rectors and vicars of past generations, how they have all slipped out of the memory of men, have left no tradition whatever behind them, if they were good! but the few bad ones did so impress themselves on their generation, that the stories of their misconduct have been handed on, and are not forgotten in a century. in the floor of my own parish church, in the chancel, is a tombstone to a former incumbent. the name and the date have been ground away by the heels of the school-children who sit over it, but thus much of the inscription remains-- "... the psalmists man of yeares hee lived a score, tended his flocke allone; theire ofspring did restore by water into life of grace; at font and grave, he served god devout: and strivd men's soules to save. he fedd the poore, lov'd all, and did by pattern showe, as pastor to his flocke, ye way that they shoulde go." not less effaced than the name is all tradition of the man whose monument proclaims his virtues. now, i take it, _for this very reason_ the tombstone bears true testimony. if it had told lies, every one would have known about it, and related this fact to their children; would have told anecdotes of the parson who was so unworthy, but concerning whose virtues his stone made such boast. that our old country parsons were not, as a rule, a disreputable, drinking, neglectful set of men i believe, because so few traditions of their misconduct remain. there was a clever, pleasant book published at the beginning of this century, entitled, _the velvet cushion_. it was written by the rev. j. w. cunningham, vicar of harrow. the seventh edition, from which i quote, appeared in . this book professes to tell the experiences of a pulpit cushion from pre-reformation days to the beginning of the nineteenth century. here is what the cushion says--"sir, you will be anxious, i am sure, to hear the history of some of your predecessors in the living; and it is my intention to gratify you. i think it right, however, to observe, that of a large proportion of them no very interesting records remain. mankind are much alike, and a little country village is not likely to call out their peculiarities. some few were mere profligates, whose memory i do not wish to perpetuate."--but it is precisely these, and only these, that the less charitable memory of man does perpetuate.--"many of them were persons of decent, cold, correct manners, varying slightly, perhaps, in the measure of their zeal, their doctrinal exactness, their benevolence, their industry, their talents--but, in general, of that neutral class which rarely affords materials for history, or subjects of instruction. they were men of that species who are too apt to spring up in the bosom of old and prosperous establishments, whose highest praise is, that they do no harm." no one can accuse this description as being coloured too high. it is, if i may judge by early recollections, applicable to those who occupied the parsonages twenty and thirty years later. in my own parish in which i was reared, romaine, one of the most brilliant luminaries of the evangelical revival, acted as curate for a while, but not the smallest trace of any tradition of his goodness, his eloquence, his zeal did i discover among the villagers. at the very time that romaine was in this parish, there was a curate in an adjoining one who was over-fond of the bottle, and was picked up out of the ditch on more than one occasion. neither his name nor his delinquencies are forgotten to this day. i take it that the state in which the parish registers have been kept are a fair test as to what sort of parsons there were. now certainly they were very neglectfully kept at the restoration and for a short while afterwards. that is not to be wondered at. during the commonwealth they had been taken from the parsons and committed to lay-registrars in the several parishes, who certainly kept them badly, and at the restoration they were not at once and always reclaimed, but continued to be kept by the clerk, who stepped into the place of the registrar appointed by the commonwealth. but in the much-maligned hanoverian period they were carefully kept by the clergy, and as a rule neatly entered. if such an indication be worth anything, it shows that the country parsons did take pains to discharge at least one of their duties. he that is faithful in a small matter, is faithful also, we may conclude, in that which is great. i presume that dr. syntax may be regarded as typical of the class, and combe says of him-- "of church-preferment he had none; nay, all his hope of that was gone: he felt that he content must be with drudging in a curacy. indeed, on ev'ry sabbath-day, through eight long miles he took his way, to preach, to grumble, and to pray; to cheer the good, to warn the sinner, and, if he got it,--eat a dinner: to bury these, to christen those, and marry such fond folks as chose to change the tenor of their life, and risk the matrimonial strife. thus were his weekly journeys made, 'neath summer suns and wintry shade; and all his gains, it did appear, were only thirty pounds a-year." and when he dies-- "the village wept, the hamlets round crowded the consecrated ground; and waited there to see the end of pastor, teacher, father, friend." what a charming picture does fielding draw in his _joseph andrews_ of mr. abraham adams, the parson--gentle, guileless, learned, and very poor. and goldsmith's vicar of wakefield--was ever a purer, sweeter type of man delineated? the description given of his parsonage and mode of life is valuable, and must be quoted; for it shows what a change has come over the parsonage and the parson's manner of intercourse with his parishioners since goldsmith's time. [illustration: an old country parsonage, bratton-clovelly.] "our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and prattling river before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. my farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given an hundred pounds for my predecessor's good-will.... my house consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside were nicely whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures of their own designing. though the same room served us for parlour and kitchen, that only made it warmer. besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. there were three other apartments--one for my wife and me, another for our two daughters, within our own, and the third, with two beds for the rest of the children." our old parsonage houses precisely resembled this description, but hardly any remain. they have given way for more pretentious houses; and with the grander houses the habits and requirements of the parsons have grown. "nor were we without guests; sometimes farmer flamborough, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our gooseberry wine. these harmless people had several ways of being good company; for while one played, the other would sing some soothing ballad--_johnny armstrong's last good night_, or _the cruelty of barbara allen_." crabbe, himself a clergyman, does not give the most favourable sketch of the village parsons; and yet his country vicar is a man of perfect blamelessness. "our priest was cheerful, and in season gay; his frequent visits seldom fail'd to please; easy himself, he sought his neighbour's ease. * * * * * simple he was, and loved the simple truth, yet had some useful cunning from his youth; a cunning never to dishonour lent, and rather for defence than conquest meant; 'twas fear of power, with some desire to rise, but not enough to make him enemies; he ever aim'd to please; and to offend was ever cautious; for he sought a friend. fiddling and fishing were his arts: at times he alter'd sermons, and he aim'd at rhymes; and his fair friends, not yet intent on cards, oft he amused with riddles and charades. mild were his doctrines, and not one discourse but gain'd in softness what it lost in force: kind his opinions; he would not receive an ill report, nor evil act believe. * * * * * though mild benevolence our priest possess'd, 'twas but by wishes or by words expressed. circles in water, as they wider flow, the less conspicuous in their progress grow, and when, at last, they touch upon the shore, distinction ceases, and they're viewed no more. his love, like the last circle, all embraced, but with effect that never could be traced. now rests our vicar.--they who knew him best proclaim his life t' have been entirely--rest. the rich approved,--of them in awe he stood; the poor admired,--they all believed him good; the old and serious of his habits spoke; the frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke; mothers approved a safe contented guest, and daughters one who backed each small request; in him his flock found nothing to condemn; him sectaries liked,--he never troubled them: no trifles fail'd his yielding mind to please, and all his passions sunk in early ease; nor one so old has left this world of sin, more like the being that he entered in." clever, true, and cutting. crabbe knew the class, its excellences and its weaknesses. we are considering the excellences now; we will recur to the weaknesses later. fielding does, in his _joseph andrews_, give us a study of another type of parson--trulliber, "whom adams found stript into his waistcoat, with an apron on, and a pail in his hands, just come from serving his hogs; for mr. trulliber was a parson on sundays, but all the other six might be more properly called a farmer. he occupied a small piece of land of his own, besides which he rented a considerable deal more. his wife milked his cows, managed his dairy, and followed the market with butter and eggs. the hogs fell chiefly to his care, which he carefully waited on at home, and attended to fairs; on which occasion he was liable to many jokes, his own size being with much ale rendered little inferior to that of the beasts he sold.... his voice was loud and hoarse, and his accent extremely broad. to complete the whole, he had a stateliness in his gait when he walked, not unlike of a goose, only he stalked slower." but this parson was only a boor, he was not disorderly. i have an old coachman, near eighty, who has been in the family since he was a boy, and of whom i get many stories of how the world went at the beginning of this century. said he to me one day, "my old uncle he lived in maristowe; he was bedridden nigh on twenty years, and in all those years parson teasdale didn't miss coming to see and read and pray with him every day, sunday and week-day alike." we make much fuss about parochial visiting now, but is there any visiting like that? in _the velvet cushion_, a dialogue between the vicar and his wife is chronicled. "'i am not sure,' said the vicar, 'that it is not a presumptuous reliance upon the goodness of god,--an abuse of the doctrine of divine mercy, that has kept me at home to-day, when i should have gone to visit old dame wilkins. an' so now, my dear, let us go to mary wilkins' directly.' her bonnet was soon on, and they hobbled down the village almost as fast as if their house had been on fire. mary wilkins was a poor good woman, to whom the vicar's visit three times a week had become almost one of the necessaries of life. it was now two hours beyond the time he usually came; and had she been awake, she would really have been pained by the delay. but, happily, she had fallen into a profound sleep, and when he put his foot on the threshold, and in his old-fashioned way said, 'peace be with you,' she was just awaking. this comforted our good man, and, as he well knew where all comfort comes from, he thanked god in his heart even for this." the old parsons lived more on the social level of the farmers and yeomen than of the squires, but they were in many cases men of very considerable culture. it was not, however, those who were the best scholars who were the best parsons. i will give presently my reminiscences of one of the last of the old scholar-parsons. unfortunately, scholarship is on the decline, at all events among those who occupy country parsonages. it has been often charged against the old parsons, that they preached mere morality, and above the heads of their people, interlarding their sermons with quotations in greek and latin. as for preaching morality--i do not care to apologize for their doing that. nothing better can be preached; nothing was more necessary to be preached in the last century. judging by the registers of baptisms in parishes, at no time was there so much immorality among village people than at that period when our country parsons were charged with preaching morality--excepting always the present. those who made this a matter of accusation, meant that the gospel, as they called their peculiar view of religion, was not insisted on; forgetting all the while that the gospel is pretty well stuffed with exhortations to morality, and above all, that model for all sermons, the one preached on the mount. but i do not believe that mere morality, apart from christian faith, was preached. there is a pretty passage in _the velvet cushion_ descriptive of a sermon at the beginning of this century, which i cannot take to be a description of something quite extraordinary and out of the way. "'my love,' said the vicar, 'this fact is worth a thousand arguments--the common people heard christ gladly. socinianism never fails to drive them away. a religion without a saviour is the temple without the shechinah, and its worshippers will all desert it. few men in the world have less pretensions as a preacher than myself,--my voice, my look, my manner, all of a very ordinary nature,--and yet, i thank god, there is scarcely a corner of our little church where you might not find a streaming eye or a beating heart. the reason is--that i speak of christ; and if there is not a charm in the word, there is the train of fears, and hopes, and joys which it carries along with it. the people feel, and then they must listen.'" evelyn in his _diary_ says, in , "a stranger, and old man, preached--much after bishop andrews' method, full of logical divisions, in short and broken periods, and latin sentences, _now quite out of fashion_ in the pulpit, which is grown into a far more profitable way of plain and practical discourses, of which sort this nation, or any other, never had greater plenty or more profitable, i am confident." pepys is hardly to be quoted as a judge, as he went to church to see pretty faces, not, or not mainly, to hear sermons, and his criticism is not always to be trusted. " , th may, the lord's day. i went by water to westminster to the parish church, and there did entertain myself with my perspective glass up and down the church, by which i had the great pleasure of seeing and gazing at a great many very fine women; and what with that, and sleeping, i passed away the time till the sermon was done." " , th august. turned into st. dunstan's church, where i heard an able sermon of the minister of the place; and stood by a pretty, modest maid, whom i did labour to take by the hand; but she would not, but got further and further from me; and at last i could perceive her to take pins out of her pocket to prick me if i should touch her again,--which seeing, i did forbear, and was glad i did spy her design. and then i fell to gaze upon another pretty maid in a pew close to me, and she on me; and i did go about to take her by the hand, which she suffered a little, and then withdrew. so the sermon ended, and the church broke up, and my amours ended also." " , th august, lord's day. up and to church, thinking to see betty michell, and did stay an hour in the crowd, thinking, by the end of a nose that i saw, that it had been her; but at last the head turned towards me, and it was her mother, which vexed me. so i back to my boat." no, pepys was no judge of a good sermon, his mind was otherwise engaged. sermons now-a-days produce little or no effect, because there are too many of them. the ears of hearers have been tickled till they are no longer capable of sensation. one hears curates boast of having preached some seven sermons in one week, and miserable stuff it must have been that flowed so freely; and yet good enough for the hearers, who, by accustoming their ears to be always hearing, are unable to appreciate a really good discourse, or if they appreciate, allow it to produce no effect whatever upon them. our audiences in church are like those who live in railway arches, who become so accustomed to the rush overhead of trains, that none ever rouse them, and they cannot sleep without the intermittent rush to lull them. the sermons of the end of last century and the beginning of this do not please us, because they are cast in a different mould, they _generally_ appeal to a different side of us than do those of the present day. they were addressed to the natural, healthy conscience, and to plain, everyday common-sense, such as all men possess. modern sermons are appeals to the feelings, amiable, sentimental emotions, and these amiable, sentimental emotions have become accustomed to be scratched, like cats, and purr when that is done. it was an epithet of scorn launched on pope damasus, that he was "ear-scratcher" to the ladies,--such is, however, the highest glory of a modern preacher. crabbe undoubtedly hit the old country parsons on their weak point when he said of his vicar, that his main characteristic was timidity. he was infinitely blameless, but also immeasurably afraid. "thus he his race began, and to the end his constant care was, no man to offend; no haughty virtues stirr'd his peaceful mind; nor urged the priest to leave the flock behind; he was his master's soldier, but not one to lead an army of his martyrs on: fear was his ruling passion." courage is born of conviction, and our old english country parsons had no definite convictions, a sort of vague, nebulous, inchoate notion that christianity was all right, and that the church of england was a _via media_, and they deprecated anything like giving precision and outline to faith, and assuming a direct walk which was not a perpetual dodging between opposed errors. i ventured in one of my novels, _red-spider_, to sketch this sort of parson, who never in the pulpit insisted on a doctrine lest he should offend a dissenter, nor on a duty lest he should make a churchman uneasy. and it was characteristic of the race. in the faroes there are sixteen different names for fogs, and the articles of the christian faith were only varieties in fogs to these spiritual pastors. the nebulous theory prevailed in astronomy, and in divinity as well. some old-fashioned people resented the resolution of the nebulæ into fixed stars; and so also in that other province do they look on it as next to sacrilege to give to faith definition. it is, however, only since parsons have begun to see definite ends that they have assumed any steadfastness in their walk and directness in their course. in fielding's time the country parsons wore their cassocks as a usual dress. "adams stood up," he relates, "and presented a figure to the gentleman which would have moved laughter in many, for his cassock had just fallen down below his great-coat, that is to say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts of his great-coat descended no lower than half-way down his thighs." [illustration: parson in cassock.] the bands were always worn, the makeshift for the old steenkirk tie of fine white linen edged with more or less deep lace. knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a black cocked hat completed his attire. some of the old derby uncle toby jugs represent the beer-drinking parson of an age a little later. the cassock has disappeared, and he wears a clerical long black coat, with bands and white stockings. the apron of the bishop is the reminiscence of the cassock, as the hat tied up with strings of the archdeacon is the last survival of the cocked hat. the parson and his parishioners were on very good terms. when the vicar of wakefield came to his new cure, the village turned out to meet him with pipe and drum. nevertheless there was occasional friction, mainly, if not altogether, relative to tithe gathering. there is a harvest-home song dryden wrote for, or introduced into his play, _king arthur; or, the british worthy_, in , which forms part of the enchantments of merlin, and is sung by comus and a set of peasants-- "we have cheated the parson, we'll cheat him again, for why should a blockhead have one in ten? one in ten, one in ten; for why should a blockhead have one in ten, for prating so long, like a book-learned sot, till pudding and dumpling burn to pot? burn to pot." there can be little question that the parson did get cheated over and over again, and bore it without a murmur. an amusing ballad is sung to this day in the west of england relative to the way in which parsons were treated by their parishioners-- "there wor a man in our town, i knowed him well, 'twor passon brown, a man of credit and renown, for--he wor _our_ passon. passon he had got a sheep, merry christmas he would keep; decent passon he--and cheap, well-spoke--and not a cross 'un. us had gotten nort to eat, so us stole the passon's sheep-- merry christmas us would keep; we ate 'n for our dinner. us enjoyed our christmas day; passon preached, and said, 'let's pray, but i'm a fasting saint; aye, aye! you'm each a wicked sinner.' cruel vex'd wor passon brown, sick to death he laid him down passonless was soon our town, for why?--we'd starved our passon. tell'y--did'y ever hear such a story, true but queer, how 'twixt christmas and new year the flock had ate their passon?" there was non-residence undoubtedly previous to the act against holding more than one living at a time, unless near together. men of birth and influence obtained a good deal of preferment, but never in post-reformation times to the extent that this abuse existed before. to take but one instance. thomas cantilupe, who died in , was precentor and canon of york, archdeacon of stafford and canon of lichfield, canon of london, canon of hereford, and held the livings of doderholt, hampton, aston, wintringham, deighton, rippel, sunterfield, and apparently also prestbury. pretty well! it was never so bad in the maligned hanoverian period. i had a living in essex which was held formerly by a certain bramston staynes, who was a squarson in essex, and held simultaneously three other livings; there was one curate to serve the three churches. the rector is said to have visited one of his livings twice only in the twenty years of his incumbency--once to read himself in, the other time to settle some dispute relative to the payment of his tithes. i can recall several instances of the old scholar-parson, a man chap-ful of quotations. one, a very able classic, and a great naturalist, was rather fond of the bottle. "mr. west," said a neighbour one day, "i hear you have a wonderfully beautiful spring of water in your glebe." "beautiful! surpassing! _fons blandusiæ, splendidior vitro!_-- water so good that i never touch it--afraid of drinking too much of it." some twenty-five years ago i knew another, a fine scholar, an old bachelor, living in a very large rectory. he was a man of good presence, courteous, old-world manners, and something of old-world infirmities. his sense of his religious responsibilities in the parish was different in quality to that affected now-a-days. he was very old when i knew him, and was often laid up with gout. one day, hearing that he was thus crippled, i paid him a visit, and encountered a party of women descending the staircase from his room. when i entered he said to me, "i suppose you met little mary so-and-so and janie what's-her-name going out? i've been churching them up here in my bed-room, as i can't go to church." when a labourer desired to have his child privately baptized, he provided a bottle of rum, a pack of cards, a lemon, and a basin of pure water, then sent for the parson and the farmer for whom he worked. the religious rite over, the basin was removed, the table cleared, cards and rum produced, and sat down to. on such occasions the rector did not return home till late, and the housekeeper left the library window unhasped for the master, but locked the house doors. under the library window was a violet bed, and it was commonly reported that the rector had on more than one occasion slept in that bed after a christening. unable to heave up his big body to the sill of the window, he had fallen back among the violets, and there slept off the exertion. i never had the opportunity of hearing the old fellow preach. his conversation--whether addressing a gentleman, a lady, or one of the lower classes--was garnished with quotations from the classic authors, greek and latin, with which his surprising memory was richly stored; and i cannot think that he could resist the temptation of introducing them into his discourse from the pulpit, yet i heard no hint of this in the only sermon of his which was repeated to me by one of his congregation. the occasion of its delivery was this. he was highly incensed at a long engagement being broken off between some young people in his parish, so next sunday he preached on "let love be without dissimulation;" and the sermon, which on this occasion was extempore, was reported by those who heard it to consist of little more than this--"you see, my dearly beloved brethren, what the apostle says--let love be without dissimulation. now i'll tell y' what i think dissimulation is. when a young chap goes out a walking with a girl,--as nice a lass as ever you saw, with an uncommon fresh pair o' cheeks and pretty black eyes too, and not a word against her character, very respectably brought up,--when, i say, my dearly beloved brethren, a young chap goes out walking with such a young woman, after church of a summer evening, seen of every one, and offers her his arm, and they look friendly like at each other, and at times he buys her a present at the fair, a ribbon, or a bit of jewellery--i cannot say i have heard, and i don't say that i have seen,--when, i say, dearly beloved brethren, a young chap like this goes on for more than a year, and lets everybody fancy they are going to be married,--i don't mean to say that at times a young chap may see a nice lass and admire her, and talk to her a bit, and then go away and forget her--there's no dissimulation in that;--but when it goes on a long time, and he makes her to think he's very sweet upon her, and that he can't live without her, and he gives her ribbons and jewellery that i can't particularize, because i haven't seen them--when a young chap, dearly beloved brethren--" and so on and so on, becoming more and more involved. the parties preached about were in the church, and the young man was just under the pulpit, with the eyes of the whole congregation turned on him. the sermon had its effect--he reverted to his love, and without any dissimulation, we trust, married her. the christmas and the easter decorations in this old fellow's church were very wonderful. there was a christmas text, and that did service also for easter. the decorating of the church was intrusted to the schoolmaster, a lame man, and his wife, and consisted in a holly or laurel crutch set up on one side of the chancel, and a "jaws of death" on the other. this appalling symbol was constructed like a set of teeth in a dentist's shop-window--the fangs were made of snipped or indented white drawing paper, and the gums of overlapping laurel leaves stitched down one on the other. a very good story was told of this old parson, which is, i believe, quite true. he was invited to spend a couple of days with a great squire some miles off. he went, stayed his allotted time, and disappeared. two days later the lady of the house, happening to go into the servants'-hall in the evening, found, to her amazement, her late guest--there. after he had finished his visit up-stairs, at the invitation of the butler he spent the same time below. "like persephone, madam," he said,--"half my time above, half in the nether world." in the matter of personal neatness he left much to be desired. his walled garden was famous for its jargonelle pears. lady x--, one day coming over, said to him, "will you come back in my carriage with me, and dine at the park? you can stay the night, and be driven home to-morrow." "thank you, my lady, delighted. i will bring with me some jargonelles. i'll go and fetch them." presently he returned with a little open basket and some fine pears in it. lady x-- looked at him, with a troubled expression in her sweet face. the rector was hardly in dining suit; moreover, there was apparent no equipment for the night. "dear mr. m--, will you not _really_ want something further? you will dine with us, _and sleep the night_." a vacant expression stole over his countenance, as he retired into himself in thought. presently a flash of intelligence returned, and he said with briskness, "ah! to be sure; i'll go and fetch two or three more jargonelles." a kind, good-hearted man the scholar-parson was, always ready to put his hand into his pocket at a tale of distress, but quite incapable of understanding that his parishioners might have spiritual as well as material requirements. i remember a case of a very similar man--a fellow of his college, and professor at cambridge--to whom a young student ventured to open some difficulties and doubts that tortured him. "difficulties! doubts!" echoed the old gentleman. "take a couple of glasses of port. if that don't dispel them, take two more, and continue the dose till you have found ease of mind." but to return to our country parson, who had the jargonelles. his church was always well attended. quite as large a congregation was to be found in it as in other parish churches, where all the modern appliances of music, popular preaching, parish visitations, clubs and bible-classes were in force. perhaps the reason was that he was not too spiritually exacting. many of our enthusiastic modern parsons attempt to screw up their people into a condition of spiritual exaltation which they are quite unable to maintain permanently, and then they become discouraged at the inevitable, invariable relapse. we suppose that one main cause of dissent is the deadness and dulness of the church service before the revival of late days; and we attribute this deadness and dulness to the indifference of these _bêtes noirs_, the clergy of last century. i doubt it. at the time of the commonwealth our churches had been gutted of everything ornamental and beautiful, and the services reduced to the most dreary performance of sermon and extempore prayer. at the restoration, a very large number indeed of the presbyterian ministers conformed, were ordained, and retained the benefices. naturally they conducted the common prayer as nearly as they could on the lines of the service they were accustomed to. they had no tradition of what the anglican liturgy was; they did not understand it, and they served it up cold or lukewarm, as unpalatable as possible. they did not like it themselves, and they did not want their congregations to become partial to it. the old clergy who were restored were obliged to content themselves with the merest essentials of divine worship; their congregations had grown up without acquaintance with the liturgy--at all events for some nineteen years they had not heard it, and they did not want to shock their weak consciences by too sudden a transformation. when pepys went to church on november , , he entered in his _diary_, "mr. mills did begin to nibble at the common prayer, by saying glory be to the father, &c., after he had read the two psalms; but the people had been so little used to it, that they could not tell what to answer." the same afternoon he went to westminster abbey, "where the first time that ever i heard the organs in a cathedral." evelyn enters, on march , , "now was our communion-table placed altar-wise," that is to say, not till eighteen years after the restoration! so slowly were alterations made in the churches to bring them back to their former conditions of decency and order. whatever has been done since has been done cautiously and with hesitation, lest offence should be given. it was not practicable in our village churches to have the hearty congregational singing that now prevails, for only a very few could read, and only such could join in the psalmody. i have in my possession a diary kept by a kinswoman in . she makes in that year an entry, "walked over this sunday to south mimms church to hear a barrel-organ that has just been there erected. it made very beautiful and appropriate music, and admirably sustained the voices of the quire, but i do not myself admire these innovations in the conduct of divine worship." what would she have said to the innovations that have taken place since then, had she lived to see them! and they have been, for the most part, in a right direction; but we must be thankful, not only for them, but for the evidence they give that the clergy are somewhat emerging from that condition in which they were, as crabbe describes them, when "fear was their ruling passion"-- "all things new were deemed superfluous, useless, or untrue. habit with him was all the test of truth; it must be right; i've done it from my youth. questions he answer'd in as brief a way;-- it must be wrong--it was of yesterday." [illustration] chapter vi. the hunting parson. [illustration] why not? why should not the parson mount his cob and go after the hounds? a more fresh, invigorating pursuit is not to be found, not one in which he is brought more in contact with his fellow-men. there was a breezy goodness about many a hunting parson of the old times that was in itself a sermon, and was one on the topic that healthy amusement and christianity go excellently well together. i had rather any day see a parson ride along with the pink, than sport the blue ribbon. the last of our genuine west country hunting parsons was jack russell, whose life has already been written, but to whom i can bear testimony that he was a good specimen of the race. i was one day on top of a coach along with two farmers, one from the parish of jack russell, another from that of another hunting parson, whom we will call jack hannaford. they were discussing their relative parsons. then he who was under hannaford told a scurvy tale of him, whereat his companion said, "tell'ee what, all the world knows what your pa'sson be; but as for old jack russell, up and down his backbone, he's as good a christian, as worthy a pastor, and as true a gentleman as i ever seed." in a parish on the cornish side of the estuary of the tamar, some little while ago, the newly appointed rector, turning over the register of baptisms in the vestry, was much astonished at seeing entries of the christening of boys only. "why, richard!" said he to the clerk, "however comes this about--are there only boys born in this place?" "please your reverence, 'tain't that; but as they won't take the girls into the dockyard at devonport, 'tain't no good baptizing 'em." the boys were christened only for the sake of the register requisite to present on admission into the government dockyard. but if the boys were given baptism only, the girls devoted their efforts to show that they fell behind in masculine gifts in no sort, and the women of the village have approved themselves remarkable amazons; they pull a boat, carry loads, speak gruff, wear moustache, very much as does a man. now, the unfortunate thing is, that the english clergy of the new epoch do seem to have been only ordained because they are feeble and effeminate youths. after ordination the curates are thrust into the society of pious and feeble women, and contract feeble and womanish ways. just as in the cornish parish only boys were baptized, so does it really seem as though only girlish youngsters pass under the bishop's hands, so that ordination becomes a pledge of effeminacy. therefore, in my opinion, it would be a wholesome corrective if they could go after the hounds occasionally. it is one thing to make of hunting a pursuit, and another to take it as a relaxation. the apostles were sportsmen, that is to say, they fished; and if it is lawful to go after fish, i take it there can be no harm in going after a hare or a fox; but then--only occasionally, and as a moral and constitutional bracer. as said of the ordinary country parson, the good is forgotten and the evil is remembered, so is it with the hunting parson. the simple worthy rector who attended his sick, was good to the poor, preached a wholesome sermon, and was seen occasionally at the meet, is not remembered,--jack russell is the exception,--but the memory of the bad hunting parson never dies. there is a characteristic song about the typical indifferent hunting parson that was much sung some fifty years ago. it ran thus[ ]-- [music: parson hogg. _arranged by the_ rev. h. fleetwood sheppard, m.a.] [music] mess parson hogg shall now maintain the burden of my song, sir! a single life perforce he led, of constitution strong, sir. sing tally ho! sing tally ho! sing tally ho! why zounds, sir! he mounts his mare to hunt the hare, sing tally ho! the hounds, sir. and every day he goes to mass he first pulls on his boot, sir! that, should the beagles chance to pass, he may join in the pursuit, sir! sing, tally ho! &c. that parson little loveth prayer, and pater night and morn, sir! for bell and book hath little care, but dearly loves the horn, sir! sing, tally ho! &c. st. stephen's day that holy man he went a pair to wed, sir! when as the service was begun, puss by the churchyard sped, sir! sing, tally ho! &c. he shut his book. "come on," he said, "i'll pray and bless no more, sir!" he drew the surplice o'er his head, and started for the door, sir! sing, tally ho! &c. in pulpit parson hogg was strong, he preached without a book, sir! and to the point, but never long, and this the text he took, sir! o tally ho! o tally ho! dearly beloved--zounds, sir! i mount my mare to hunt the hare, singing, tally ho! the hounds, sir! one of the very worst types of the hunting parson was that man chowne, whom mr. blackmore has immortalized in his delightful story of _the maid of sker_. many of the tales told in that novel relative to chowne--the name of course is fictitious--are quite true. as i happen to know a good many particulars of the life of this man, i will here give them. he was rector of a wild lonely parish situated on high ground--ground so high that trees did not flourish about the rectory, nor did flowers thrive in his garden. flowers in chowne's garden! the idea is inconceivable. the people were wild and rough in those days, especially so in that storm-beaten, almost alpine spot, accessible still only by abominable roads up hill and down dale, like riding over the waves of a stormy sea. they were not, therefore, particularly shocked at their parson's lack of sweetness and light. probably, if they thought anything about this, they considered that sweetness and light were as ill adapted to blackamoor as lilies and roses. his force of character impressed them, and commanded and obtained respect. to shock moral feelings, moral feelings must first exist. the parson was not disliked, he was feared. a curious man he was in appearance, with eyes hard, boring, dark, that made a man on whom they were fixed shiver to his toes. the parishioners believed he had the evil eye, and "over-looked" or "ill-wished" those whom he desired to injure, or any one who had given him offence. there is no breaking such a spell save by drawing the blood of the "over-looker," and no one was hardy enough to attempt this of chowne. when a woman is thought to have cast a spell through her malignant eye, the person that suffers scratches the inflicter of evil. the story told in _the maid of sker_, of chowne breaking up the road to prevent the bishop visiting him, is true. dr. phillpotts was then bishop, and he was eminently dissatisfied with what he heard of the ecclesiastical and moral condition of blackamoor and its parson. he therefore drove there to make a personal visitation. chowne, forewarned, employed men to dig up the road for a space of about twenty feet, and the hole they made was filled in with bog-water, then the whole lightly covered over with turf and strewn with dust. the bishop's carriage and horses floundered in and was upset. henry of exeter was, however, not the man to be daunted by such an accident--that it was not an accident, but a deliberate attempt to stay his course, he saw at once by the condition of the road. he went on to blackamoor, and reached the parsonage. there he found chowne in his dining-room, sullen, with his wicked black eyes watching him. his head was for the most part bald, but he had one long wisp of dark hair that he twisted about his bald pate. chowne put a bottle of brandy on the table, and a couple of tumblers, and bade the bishop help himself. "no, thank you, mr. chowne," said the bishop briefly. "ah! my lord, you may do without it, maybe, at exeter, but up at this height we must drink or perish of dulness." then he helped himself to a stiff glass, and relapsed into silence. presently the bishop said-- "you keep hounds, i hear." "no, my lord, the hounds keep me." "i do not understand." "well, then, you must be mighty stupid. they stock my larder with hares. you don't suppose i should have hares on my table unless they were caught for me. there's no butcher for miles and miles, and i can't get a joint but once in a fortnight maybe; what should i do without rabbits and hares? forced to eat 'em, and they must be caught to be eaten." "mr. chowne," said henry of exeter, "i've been told that you have men in here with you drinking and fighting." "it's a lie. i admit that they drink,--every man drinks since he was a baby,--but fight in my dining-room! no, my lord! directly they begin to fight i take 'em by the scruff of the neck, and turn them out into the churchyard, and let 'em fight out their difference among the tombs." "i am sorry to say, mr. chowne, that i have heard some very queer and unsatisfactory tales concerning you." "i dare say you have, my lord;" he fixed his strong eyes on the bishop. "so have i of your lordship, very unpleasant and nasty tales, when i've been to torrington or bideford fairs. but when i do, i say it's a parcel of ---- lies. and when next you hear any of these tales about me, then you say, 'i know tom chowne very well--drunk out of his bottle of brandy--i swear that all these tales about him is also a parcel of lies." the story is told in _the maid of sker_ of his having driven a horse mad by putting a hemp-grain into its eye. that story is thought to be true. the horse was one he coveted, but it was bought at a higher figure than he cared to give for it by sir walter c----. chowne shortly after was at a fair or market where sir walter was, who had ridden in on this very horse. he slipped out of the inn and into the stable, just before the baronet left, and thus treated the unfortunate animal, which went almost mad with the pain, and threw his rider. he had certain men in the parish, not exactly in his pay, but so completely under his control, that they executed his suggestions without demur, whatever they might be, and never for a moment gave thought that they themselves were free agents. as henry ii. did not order the murder of becket, but threw out a hint that it would be an acceptable thing to him to be rid of the proud prelate, so was it with chowne. he never ordered the commission of a crime, but he suggested the commission. for instance, if a farmer had offended him, he would say to one of these men subject to his influence, "as i've been standing in the church porch, harry, i thought what a terrible thing it would be if the rick of farmer greenaway which i can see over against me were to burn. 'twould come home to him pretty sharp, i reckon." next night the rick would be on fire. or he would say to his groom, "tom, there's farmer moyle going to sup with me at the parsonage to-night. shocking thing were his linchpin to be gone, and as he was going down blackamoor hill, the wheel were to come off." that night he would entertain moyle with unwonted cordiality, pass the bottle freely, whilst an ominous spark burnt in his pebbly eye. as the farmer that night drove away, his wheel would come off, and he be thrown, and be found by the next passer along the road with dislocated thigh or broken arm and collar-bone. as already said, he kept a pack of harriers, but in such a wretched, rattletrap set of kennels that they occasionally broke loose. this occurred once on sunday, and just as chowne was going to the pulpit, the pack went by. he halted with his hand on the banister, turned to the clerk, and said, "that's towler giving voice. run--he's got the lead, and will tear the hare to bits." thereupon forth went the clerk, and succeeded in securing the hare from the hounds hunting on their own head. he brought the hare into church, and threw it under his seat till the sermon was done, the blessing given, and the congregation dismissed. chowne had a housekeeper named sally. one day chowne came down very smartly dressed. "where be you a-going to to-day?" asked sally. "that's no concern of yours," answered the rector; "but i don't mind telling you either--i'm going to be married." "why! for sure, you're not going to be such a fool as that!" exclaimed the housekeeper. "i don't know but what it may be a folly," growled chowne; "but, sally, it's a folly you are bent on committing too." to this sally, who for some time had been keeping company with one joe, made no reply. "now look'ye here," said chowne. "i don't want you to marry, sally. it's no reason because i make a fool o' myself, that you should go and do likewise." "but why not, master?" "because i want'y to stay here and see that my wife don't maltreat me," answered chowne. "and i'll tell'y what, sally--if you'll give up joe, i'll give thee the fat pig. which will'y now prefer, joe or the porker?" sally considered for a moment, and then said, "lauk! sir, i'd rayther have the pig." and now must be told how it was that chowne was brought to the marriage state. there was in the neighbourhood a yeoman family named heathman, and there was a handsome daughter belonged to the house. chowne had paid her some of his insolent attentions, that meant, if they meant anything, some contemptuous admiration. her brothers were angry. it was reported that chowne had spoken of their sister, moreover, in a manner they would not brook; so they invited him to their house, made him drunk, and when drunk sign a paper promising to marry jane heathman before three months were up, or to forfeit £ , . they took care to have this document well attested, and next morning presented it to chowne, who had forgotten all about it. he was much put out, blustered, cajoled, tried to laugh it off--all to no purpose. the brothers insisted on his either taking jane to wife, or paying the stipulated sum. he asked for delay, and rode off to consult his friend hannaford. "bless 'y," said hannaford, "ten thousand pounds is a terrible big sum to pay. take the creature." thus it came about that chowne yielded to the less disagreeable alternative. poor jane heathman! she little thought of what was in store for her. her brothers had shown her a cruel kindness in forcing her into the arms of a reluctant suitor. to return to the wedding day, after the offer made to and accepted by sally. about one o'clock chowne returned alone, seated himself composedly in his dining-room, and ordered dinner. "but where be the wife?" asked sally. "haven't 'ee been married then?" "aye, married i have been, though." "but where be mistress chowne?" "she's at the public-house good three miles from here, sally. she said to me as we were coming along, 'that is a point on which i differ from you.' some point on which we were speaking. so i stopped, and looked her in the face, and i said to her, 'mrs. chowne, i never allow any one outside my house to differ from me, and not everlastingly repent it afterwards. and i won't allow any one inside my house to differ from me. so you can remain at this tavern and turn the matter over in your mind. if you intend to have no will of your own, and no opinion other than mine, then you can walk on at your leisure to blackamoor. if not, you can turn back and go home to where you came from. nobody expects you at blackamoor, and nobody wants you there. so you are heartily welcome to keep away. so--serve the dinner, sally, for _one_." an hour and a half later the bride arrived on foot, forlorn and humbled, and met with an ungracious reception from sally. sally had the pig that had been promised her killed, cut up, and sold. after a while chowne suspected that she was still keeping company with joe. he was very angry, for he felt that he had been done out of the pig on false pretences; so he went off with his wife to stay with parson hannaford, and gave out he would not return for a week. on the second evening, however, he suddenly returned, and came bounding in at the door; and sure enough joe was there, come courting, and to eat his supper with sally. the housekeeper, hearing the tread of her master, bade joe fly and get out of his reach. but the back-door was fastened, and joe, in his alarm, jumped into the copper. sally put the lid on, and dashed into the passage to meet her master. "where's joe? i'm sure he's here. you've cut too much of my ham to fry for yourself alone. you've drawn too much ale. i'm sure joe is here!" shouted chowne, looking about him. "deary life, sir!" exclaimed the housekeeper, "i protest! i don't know where he can be. why, master, you know i gave him up for the sake of the pig." chowne's eye wandered about the kitchen, and noticed--what was unusual--the lid on the copper in the adjoining back-kitchen, that served also as laundry. "sally," said he, "put some water into the copper to boil. i'm going to dip the pups. they've got the mange." "ain't there enough in the kettle, master?" "no, there is not. put water into the copper." accordingly sally was forced to fill a can at the pump, and pour water into the copper over her lover, removing for the purpose only a corner of the cover. "there, master. do'y let me serve you up some supper, and i'll get the water heated after." "no," said chowne, "i'll stand here till it boils. shove in some browse" (light firewood). reluctantly the browse was put in under the cauldron, and was lighted. it flared up. "now some hard wood, sally," said the parson. still more reluctantly were sawn logs inserted. a moment after up went the copper lid, and out scrambled joe, hot and dripping. "ah! i reckoned you was there," shouted chowne, and went at him with his horse-whip, and lashed the fellow about the kitchen, down the passage, into the hall, and out at the front door, where he dismissed him with a kick. i tell the tale as it was told to me, but i suspect the conclusion of this story. it reminds me of a familiar folk-tale. but then--is it not the prerogative of such tales to attach themselves to the last human notoriety? [illustration: parson chowne and sally's young man.] that this same crop, or hunting-whip, was applied to mrs. chowne's shoulders and back was commonly reported in blackamoor, and indeed is so reported even unto this day. the following story is on the authority of jack russell, vicar of swimbridge. he had called one day at blackamoor parsonage, and found chowne sitting over his fire smoking, and mrs. chowne sitting in one corner of the room, against the wall. her husband had turned his back on her. russell was uneasy, and asked if mrs. chowne were unwell. chowne turned his head over his shoulder and asked, "mrs. chowne, be you satisfied or be you not? you know the terms of agreement come to between us. if you are not satisfied, you can go home to your friends, and i won't hinder you from going. i don't care a hang myself whether you stay or whether you go." "i am content," said the lady faintly. "very well," said chowne. "then we'll have a drop of cider, jack. go and fetch us a jug and tumblers, madam." in _the maid of sker_ chowne is represented as torn to pieces by his hounds. the real chowne did not meet this fate. his death was, however, tragic in another aspect. he had left his rectory, and lived in a more sheltered spot in a house of his own. before the windows grew a particularly handsome box-tree. now chowne had done some dastardly mean and cruel act to a young farmer near, tricking him out of a large sum of money in a way peculiarly base. one night the box-tree was taken up and carried away, no one knew whither, though every one suspected by whom. chowne raged over this insult; and as he was unable to bring the act home to the culprit, his rage was impotent. but the uprooting of the box-tree was apparently the death of him. he felt that the dread he had inspired was gone, his control over the neighbourhood was lost, the spell of his personality was broken. this thought, even more than mortified rage at being unable to discover and punish the man who had pulled up his box-tree, broke him down, and he rapidly sank, intellectually and physically, into a ruin, and died. chowne had a friend, a man, if possible, worse than himself, him whom we will call jack hannaford, who was vicar of wellclose. it was said that hannaford was brutal, but chowne fiendish. hannaford was an immensely powerful man. he said one day to his groom, "come on, bill, we'll go over to bidlake and take a rise out of welford"--afterwards lord lundy. so they blackened their faces, disguised themselves in cast-off clothes, and went to the lodge at bidlake. they were denied admittance, but forced their way in and walked up the drive. the lodge-keeper ran after them and attacked the groom, who at once buckled-to for a fight. then a couple of keepers burst out from the shrubbery. "leave them alone," said hannaford. "it's a pretty sight. don't interfere to spoil sport." however, one of the keepers went at the groom, to the relief of the lodge-keeper. "oh, you will, will you," said hannaford. he caught him with his huge hand and cast him on the gravel. the other keeper fared no better. the groom had in the meantime demolished his man; so he and his master sauntered along the drive without further molestation till they reached the house. hannaford went to the door to ring, when the hon. mr. welford appeared, and angrily inquired what was their business. "work, your honour," answered hannaford, pulling a forelock. "work is it you want? but did not my keepers stop your coming up this way?" "they tried it, but they couldn't do it," answered hannaford. "there they be--skulking along." "they could not stop you?" "we flung three of them in the road," answered hannaford. "and now i reckon your honour will give us something to drink your health." mr. welford gave them a crown and dismissed them--also, it is said, the keepers. if so, that was hardly fair, for hannaford was the strongest man in england. he was beaten but once, and that was in exeter, when drunk. he had gone over to the city for a spree, and had put up at a low public-house. there he met with a welshman, and had a fight with him, and was horribly mauled about the head and body. next day, when sober, hannaford followed the man by train to bristol, and thence tracked him to some little out-of-the-way place in wales. he proceeded to his door, knocked, called the man out, and fought him there and then--and this time utterly thrashed him. when the fellow was so knocked about that he could not speak and hold up, "there," said the devonshire parson, "now take care how you lay a finger on jack hannaford again when he is drunk. if you wish for a return bout, call at your will at wellclose parsonage, and you'll find him ready." some years ago a famous prize-fighter went about england on exhibition. he came to taunton, but was there taken ill, and unable to show himself. the manager at once wrote or telegraphed to jack hannaford, and he went up with alacrity to supply his place. he was stripped, showed his muscles, and his mode of hitting, as the advertised pugilist. the taunton people would have been none the wiser, but, as it happened, lord lundy was in the tent. hannaford caught his eye, and saw that he was recognized; so he went over to his lordship and whispered, "mum, my lord. the second best man in england was laid on the shelf, so they had to telegraph for the best man to take his place." hannaford would never give any pocket-money to his sons till they were strong enough to knock him down. then each received a five-pound note, which he was considered at length to have deserved by having made proof of his manhood. it is a fact that on market days, when hannaford was seen on the platform with his ticket for the market town, the farmers would bribe the guard to put him into a carriage by himself and lock him in, so afraid were they of being in the same compartment with the parson, who would challenge and fight a man in a railway carriage as readily as anywhere else. though a hunting parson, of altogether different character was jack russell. he was a sporting man to the end of his fingers and toes, but a most worthy, kind-hearted, god-fearing, righteous man. one story of jack russell that is not, i believe, told in his _life_, is worth repeating. when he was over eighty, he started keeping a pack of harriers. the then bishop of exeter sent for him. "mr. russell, i hear you have got a pack of hounds. is it true?" "it is. i won't deny it, my lord." "well, mr. russell, it seems to me rather unsuitable for a clergyman to keep a pack. i do not ask you to give up hunting, for i know it would not be possible for you to exist without _that_. but will you, to oblige me, give up the pack?" "do'y ask it as a personal favour, my lord?" "yes, mr. russell, as a personal favour." "very well, then, my lord, i will." "thank you, thank you." the bishop, moved by his readiness, held out his hand. "give me your hand, mr. russell; you are--you really are--a good fellow." jack russell gave his great fist to the bishop, who pressed it warmly. as they thus stood hand in hand, jack said, "i won't deceive you--not for the world, my lord. i'll give up the pack, sure enough--but mrs. russell will keep it instead of me." the bishop dropped his hand. that men like chowne and hannaford were unpopular in their parishes i have never heard. i do not believe they were troubled with any aggrieved parishioners. the unpopular man in his parish is he who tries to raise the moral and spiritual tone of his people. they do not like to be made to think that all is not well with them, and it affords them satisfaction to think that they are not worse, if no better, than their pastor. i know a parish in quite another part of england where the attendance at church was very thin, till the incumbent was one day accidentally, i believe, overtaken with drink, and was had up before the magistrates. after that his church filled, he became a popular man--he had come down to the level of his people. but, as already said, it is of the bad parsons, as of the bad squires, that stories are told, and told from generation to generation; whereas those of spotless life--the vast bulk of them are such--drop year by year out of existence, and at the same time out of memory. in the parish in which i live there was a rector, about seventy years ago, who in his old age went to the neighbouring town, nine miles off, to live, and when asked by the bishop why he was non-resident, said that there was no barber nearer who could curl his wig. that man held the living for a long term of years; he may have done good,--that he did evil i do not think, because the only thing remembered against him is, that he did not live in a place where his wig could not be curled. but is it not sad!--a long life's labour spent among the poor, preaching god's word, ministering to the sick and afflicted and broken-hearted, and all passing away without leaving the smallest trace, indeed the only reminiscence of the man being, that he hurt the _amour propre_ of the parish by telling the bishop there was no one in it competent to curl his wig. [illustration: old chained bibles.] footnote: [ ] from _songs of the west: traditional songs and ballads of the west of england._ collected by s. baring gould and h. fleetwood sheppard. london: methuen & co. . chapter vii. country dances. [illustration] clisthenes, tyrant of sicyon, says herodotus, had a beautiful daughter whom he resolved to marry to the most accomplished of the greeks. accordingly all the eligible young men of greece resorted to the court of sicyon to offer for the hand of the lovely agarista. among these, the most distinguished was hippoclides, and the king decided to take him as his son-in-law. [illustration: hippoclides before clisthenes.] clisthenes had already invited the guests to the nuptial feast, and had slaughtered one hundred oxen to the gods to obtain a blessing on the union, when hippoclides offered to exhibit the crown and climax of his many accomplishments. he ordered a flute-player to play a dance tune, and when the musician obeyed, he (hippoclides) began to dance before the king and court and guests, and danced to his own supreme satisfaction. after the first bout, and he had rested awhile and recovered breath, he ordered a table to be introduced, and he danced figures on it, and finally set his head on the table and gesticulated with his legs. when the applause had ceased, clisthenes said--as the young man had reverted to his feet and stood expectantly before him--"you have danced very well, but i don't want a dancing son-in-law." how greatly we should like to know what herodotus does not tell us, whether the tyrant of sicyon was of a sour and puritanical mind, objecting to dancing on principle, or whether he objected to the peculiar kind of dance performed by hippoclides, notably that with his head on the table and his legs kicking in the air. i do not think that such a thing existed at that period as puritanical objection to dancing, but i imagine that it was the sort of dance which offended clisthenes. lucian in one of his dialogues introduces a philosopher who reproaches a friend for being addicted to dancing, whereupon the other replies that dancing was of divine invention, for the goddess rhæa first composed set dances about the infant jupiter to hide him from the eyes of his father saturn, who wanted to eat him. moreover, homer speaks with high respect of dancing, and declares that the grace and nimbleness of merion in the dance distinguished him above the rest of the heroes in the contending hosts of greeks and trojans. he adds that in greece statues were erected to the honour of the best dancers, so highly was the art held in repute, and that hesiod places on one footing valour and dancing, when he says that "the gods have bestowed fortitude on some men, and on others a disposition for dancing!" lastly, he puts the philosopher in mind that socrates not only admired the saltatory exercise in others, but learned it himself when he was an old man. on hearing this defence of dancing, the morose philosopher in lucian's dialogue professes himself a convert, and requests his friend to take him to the next subscription ball. steele, in the _spectator_, declared that "no one ever was a good dancer that had not a good understanding," and that it is an art whereby mechanically, so to speak, "a sense of good-breeding and virtue are insensibly implanted in minds not capable of receiving it so well in any other rules." i cannot help thinking that the dancing commended by the _spectator_, learned in old age by socrates, and that in which the greeks won the honour of statues, was something far removed from that which incurred the displeasure of clisthenes, and lost hippoclides the hand of his beautiful mistress. here is a letter in the _spectator_, given in steele's article. it purports to be from a father, philipater: "i am a widower, with one daughter; she was by nature much inclined to be a romp, and i had no way of educating her, but commanding a young woman, whom i entertained to take care of her, to be very watchful in her care and attendance about her. i am a man of business and obliged to be much abroad. the neighbours have told me, that in my absence our maid has let in the spruce servants in the neighbourhood to junketings, while my girl play'd and romped even in the street. to tell you the plain truth, i catched her once, at eleven years old, at chuck-farthing, among the boys. this put me upon new thoughts about my child, and i determined to place her at a boarding-school. i took little notice of my girl from time to time, but saw her now and then in good health, out of harm's way, and was satisfied. but by much importunity, i was lately prevailed with to go to one of their balls. i cannot express to you the anxiety my silly heart was in, when i saw my romp, now fifteen, taken out. i could not have suffered more, had my whole fortune been at stake. my girl came on with the most becoming modesty i had ever seen, and casting a respectful eye, as if she feared me more than all the audiency, i gave a nod, which, i think, gave her all the spirit she assumed upon it, but she rose properly to that dignity of aspect. my romp, now the most graceful person of her sex, assumed a majesty which commanded the highest respect. you, mr. spectator, will, better than i can tell you, imagine all the different beauties and changes of aspect in an accomplished young woman, setting forth all her beauties with a design to please no one so much as her father. my girl's lover can never know half the satisfaction that i did in her that day. i could not possibly have imagined that so great improvement could have been wrought by an art that i always held in itself ridiculous and contemptible. there is, i am convinced, no method like this, to give young women a sense of their own value and dignity; and i am sure there can be none so expeditious to communicate that value to others. for my part, my child has danced herself into my esteem, and i have as great an honour of her as ever i had for her mother, from whom she derived those latent good qualities which appeared in her countenance when she was dancing; for my girl showed in one quarter of an hour the innate principles of a modest virgin, a tender wife, and generous friend, a kind mother, and an indulgent mistress." it is a curious fact that the beautiful and graceful dance, the dance as a fine art, is extinct among us. it has been expelled by the intrusive waltz. and if in the waltz any of that charm of modesty, grace of action, and dignity of posture can be found, which delighted our forefathers and made them esteem dancing, then let it be shown. it was not waltzing which made merion to be esteemed among the heroes of the trojan war; it was not waltzing certainly that socrates acquired in his old age; and it most assuredly was not whilst she was waltzing that the correspondent of the _spectator_ admired in his daughter the modest virgin. it is possible that it was a sort of topsy-turvy waltz hippoclides performed, and which lost him the daughter of clisthenes. the dance is not properly the spinning around of two persons of opposite sex hugging each other, and imitating the motion of a teetotum. the dance is an assemblage of graceful movements and figures performed by a set number of persons. there is singular beauty in the dance proper. the eye is pleased by a display of graceful and changing outline, by bringing into play the muscles of well-moulded limbs. but where many performers take part the enchantment is increased, just as part-singing is more lovely than solo-singing; for to the satisfaction derived from the graceful attitude of one performer is added that of beautiful grouping. a single well-proportioned figure is a goodly sight; several well-proportioned figures in shifting groups, now in clusters, now swinging loose in wreaths, now falling into line or circles; whilst an individual, or a pair, focus the interest, is very beautiful. it is the change in a concert from chorus to solo; and when, whilst the single dance, projected into prominence, attracts the delighted eye, the rest of the dancers keep rhythmic motion, subdued, in simple change, the effect is exquisite. it is the accompaniment on a living instrument to a solo. a correspondent of the _times_ recently gave us an account of the japanese ballet, which illustrates what i insist on. he tells us that the maikos or japanese ballet-dancers are girls of from sixteen to eighteen years of age; they wear long fine silk dresses, natural flowers in their hair, and hold fans in their hands. their dance is perfectly decorous, exquisitely graceful, and of marvellous artistic beauty. it partakes of the nature of the minuet and the gavotte; it makes no violent demands on lungs and muscles; its object is to give pleasure to the spectators through the exhibition of harmony of lines, elegance of posture, beauty of dress, grace with which the folds of the long drapery fall, the play of light, and change of arrangement of colour. it is a dance full of noble and stately beauty, and has nothing in common with our european ballet, with its extravagance and indelicacy, and--it must be added--inelegance. it is a play without words, and a feast of pure delight to the artistic eye. Æsthetically, the dance is, or may be, one of the most beautiful creations of man, an art, and an art of no mean order. in it each man and woman has to sustain a part, is one of many, a member of a company, enchained to it by laws which all must obey. and yet each has in his part a certain scope for individual expansion, for the exercise of liberty. it is a figure of the world of men, in which each has a part to perform in relation to all the rest. if the performer uses his freedom to excess, the dancers in the social ball are thrown into disorder, and the beauty and unity of the performance is lost. now all this beauty is taken from us. the waltz has invaded our ball-rooms, and drives all other dances out of it. next to the polka, the waltz is the rudest and most elementary of step and figure-dances; it has extirpated before it the lovely and intricate dances, highly artistic, and of elaborate organization, which were performed a century ago. how is it now in a ball? even the quadrille and lancers, the sole remnants of an art beautiful to lookers-on, are sat out, or, after having been entered on the list, are omitted, and a waltz substituted for it. "_valse, valse, toujours valse!_" a book on dances, published in , speaks of the introduction of the waltz as a new thing, and of the rarity of finding persons at a ball who could dance it. "the company at balls having no partners who are acquainted with waltzing or quadrilles, generally become spectators of each other in a promenade round the rooms, so that the waltz or quadrille ball ends in country dances, sometimes not one of these dances being performed during the evening." that was a little over sixty years ago. waltz and quadrille came in hand-in-hand, and displaced the old artistic and picturesque country dances, and then waltz prevailed, and kicked quadrille out at the door. the country dance is the old english dance--the dance of our forefathers--the dance which worked such wonders in the heart of the old father in steele's paper in the _spectator_. the english have always been a dancing people, only during the commonwealth did they kick their heels, dancing being unallowed; and at the beginning of this century dancing was discountenanced among the upper classes by the evangelicals, and among villagers almost completely put down, or driven into low public-houses, by the dissenters. in hentzner describes the english as "excelling in dancing, and in the art of music;" and says that whilst a man might hope to become lord chancellor through dancing, without being bred to the law, like sir christopher hatton, it was certainly worth while to endeavour to excel. according to barnaby rich, in the dances in vogue were measures--a grave and stately performance, like the minuet, galliards, jigs, braules, rounds, and hornpipes. in the earl of worcester writes to the earl of shrewsbury, "we are frolic here in court, much dancing in the privy chamber of _country dances_ before the queen's majesty, who is exceedingly pleased therewith." in the reign of james i., waldon, sneering at buckingham's kindred, observes that it is easier to put fine clothes on the back than to learn the french dances, and therefore that "none but country dances" must be used at court. at christmas, - , the prince charles "did lead the measures with the french ambassador's wife. the measures--braules, corrantoes, and galliards--being ended, the masquers with the ladies did dance two country dances." in pepys' _diary_ we read how he went to see the king dance in whitehall. "by and by comes the king and queen, the duke (of york) and the duchess, and all the great ones; and after seating themselves, the king takes out the duchess of york; and the duke, the duchess of buckingham; the duke of monmouth, my lady castlemaine; and so other lords other ladies; and they danced the brantle. after that the king led a lady a single coranto; and then the rest of the lords, one after another, other ladies; very noble it was, and great pleasure to see. then to country dances, the king leading the first, which he called for, which was, says he, '_cuckolds all awry_,' the old dance of england. of the ladies that danced, the duke of monmouth's mistress, and my lady castlemaine, and a daughter of sir harry de vicke's, were the best. the manner was, when the king dances, all the ladies in the room, and the queen herself, stand up; and indeed, he dances rarely, and much better than the duke of york. having staid here as long as i thought fit, to my infinite content, it being the greatest pleasure i could wish now to see at court, i went home, leaving them dancing." all old ballads are set to dance tunes, and derive their name from _ballet_. where no instruments were to be had, the dancers sang the ballad, and so gave the time to their feet. the fact of ballad tunes being dance tunes has been the occasion of their preservation; for in _the compleate dancing master_, a collection of dance tunes, the first edition of which was published in , and which went through eighteen editions to , a great number have been preserved as dance tunes, with the titles of the ballads sung to them. in the old country dances the number of performers was unlimited, but could not consist of less than six. what is the origin of our title for certain dances--"country dances"? i venture to think it has nothing to do with the country, though i have chappell's weighty opinion against me. the designation was properly given to all those counter-dances, _contre-dances_, which were performed by the gentlemen standing on one side, and the ladies on the other, in lines, in contra-distinction to all round and square dances. as a general rule, foreign dances are circular or square. in brittany is la boulangère, and among the basques, la tapageuse, which are set in lines; but with a few exceptions, most continental dances were differentiated from the general type of english dances by being square or round. there were, no doubt, among our peasantry dances in a ring about the may-pole, but this was exceptional. a writer at the beginning of this century says,--"an english country dance differs from any other known dance in form and construction, except _ecossaise_ and quadrille country dances, as most others composed of a number of persons are either round, octagon, circular, or angular. the pastoral dances on the stage approximate the nearest to english country dances, being formed longways." the song and the dance were closely associated; indeed, as already said, the word _ballet_ is derived from "ballad," or _vice-versâ_; and all our old dance tunes had appropriate words set to them. dargason, a country dance older than the reformation, found its way into wales, where it was set to welsh words; the english ballad to which it was usually sung was-- "it was a maid of my country, as she came by a hawthorn tree, as full of flowers as might be seen, she marvelled to see the tree so green. at last she asked of this tree how came this freshness unto thee? and every branch so fair and clean? i marvel that you grow so green." doubtless half the charm of a country dance consisted in the dancers singing the words of the familiar ballad as they went through the movements of the dance, the burden often occurring at a general joining of hands and united movement. an english country dance was composed of the putting together of several figures, and it allowed of almost infinite variation, according to the number and arrangement of the figures introduced. sir roger de coverley, which is not quite driven out, consists of seven figures. some figures are quite elementary, as turning the partner, setting, leading down the middle. others are more elaborate, as turn corners, and swing corners; some are called short figures, as requiring in their performance a whole strain of short measure, or half a strain of long measure. long figures, on the other hand, occupy a strain of eight bars in long measure--a strain being that part of an air which is terminated by a double bar, and usually consists in country dances of four, eight, or sixteen single bars. country dance tunes usually consist of two strains, though they sometimes extend to three, four, or five, and of eight bars each. the names and character of the old country dances are quite forgotten. the following is a list of some of the dances given in _the complete country dancing master_, published near the beginning of last century-- whitehall. ackroyd's pad. the whirligig. amarillis. buttered pease. bravo and florimel. pope joan. have at thy coat, old woman. the battle of the boyne. the gossip's frolic. the intrigue. prince and princess. a health to betty. bobbing joan. sweet kate. granny's delight. essex buildings. lord byron's maggot. ballamera. the dumps. rub her down with straw. moll peatley. cheerily and merrily. in waylet's _collection of country dances_, published in , we have these-- the lass of livingstone. highland laddie. down the burn, davy. eltham assembly. cephalus and procris. joy go with her. duke of monmouth's jig. bonny lass. the grasshopper. the pallet. jack lattin. fiarnelle's maggot. buttered pease. the star. some of these dances were simplicity itself, consisting of only a very few elementary figures. this is the description of _sweet kate_. "lead up all a double and back. that again. set your right foot to your woman's, then your left, clasp your woman on her right hand, then on the left, wind your hands and hold up your finger, wind your hands again and hold up another finger of the other hand, then single; and all this again." _bobbing joan_ is no more than this. first couple dance between the second, who then take their places, dance down, hands and all round, first two men snap fingers and change places, first women do the same, these two changes to the last, and the rest follow. the tune of _the triumph_ is still found in collections of dance music, but it is only here and there in country places that it can be performed. i saw some old villagers of sixty and seventy years of age dance it last christmas, but no young people knew anything about it. it is a slight, easy, but graceful dance--graceful when not danced by old gaffers and grannies. our english country dances were carried abroad, and became popular there. "the italians," writes horace walpole from florence in , "are fond to a degree of our country dances: _cold and raw_ they only know by the tune; _blouzy-bella_ is almost italian, and _buttered peas_ is _pizzelli al buro_." indeed, as early as , when the grand duke of tuscany visited england, he was highly taken with the english dances, and probably on his return to florence introduced them there. count lorenzo magalotti, who attended him on his visit, says that he and the duke attended dancing-schools, "frequented by unmarried and married ladies, who are instructed by the master, and practise with much gracefulness and agility various dances after the english fashion. dancing is a very common and favourite amusement of the ladies in this country; every evening there are entertainments at different places in the city, at which many ladies and citizens' wives are present, they going to them alone, as they do to the rooms of the dancing-masters, at which there are frequently upwards of forty or fifty ladies. his highness had an opportunity of seeing several dances in the english style, exceedingly well regulated, and executed in the smartest and genteelest manner by very young ladies, whose beauty and gracefulness were shown off to perfection in this exercise." and again, "he went out to highgate to see a children's ball, which, being conducted according to the english custom, afforded great pleasure to his highness, both from the numbers, the manner, and the gracefulness of the dancers." when our english country dances were carried abroad,--notably to germany and france,--the tunes to which they were danced were carried with them, were there appropriated, and as these dances died out in their native home, and with them their proper melodies, the tunes have in several instances come back to us from the continent, as german or french airs. very probably one reason of the disapproval which country dancing has encountered arises from the fact that it allows no opportunities of conversation, and consequently of flirtation, as the partners stand opposite each other, and in the figures take part with other performers quite as much as with their own proper _vis-à-vis_. but then is a dance arranged simply to enable a young pair to clasp each other and whisper into each others ears? are art, beauty, pleasure to the spectators to be left out of count altogether? the wall-fruit are deserving of commiseration, for they now see nothing that can gratify the eye in a ball-room; the waltz has been like the norwegian rat--it has driven the native out altogether, and the native dance and the native rat were the more beautiful of the two. it is not often we get a graceful dance on the stage either. country dancing is banished thence also; distorted antics that are without grace, and of scanty decency, have supplanted it. it seems incredible that what was regarded as a necessary acquisition of every lady and gentleman sixty or seventy years ago should have gone, and gone utterly--so utterly that probably dancing-masters of the present day would not know how to teach the old country dances. in _the complete system of country dancing_, by thomas wilson, published about (there is no date on the title-page), the author insists on this being the national dance of the english, of its being in constant practice, of its being a general favourite "in every city and town throughout the united kingdom;" as constituting "the principal amusement with the greater part of the inhabitants of this country." not only so, but the english country dance was carried to all the foreign european courts, where it "was very popular, and became the most favourite species of dancing;" and yet it is gone--gone utterly. the minuet was, no doubt, a tedious and over-formal dance; it was only tolerable when those engaged wore hoops and powder and knee-breeches; but the english country dance is not stiff at all, and only so far formal as all complications of figures must be formal. it is at the same time infinitely elastic, for it allows of expansion or contraction by the addition or subtraction of figures. there are about a hundred figures in all, and these can be changed in place like the pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope. [illustration: minuet being danced.] why, in this age of revivals, when we fill our rooms with chippendale furniture and rococo mirrors and inlaid florentine cabinets, and use the subdued colours of our grandmothers, when our books are printed in old type with head and tail pieces of two centuries ago, when the edges are left in the rough--why should we allow the waltz, the foreign waltz, to monopolize our ball-rooms to the exclusion of all beautiful figure-dancing, and let an old english art disappear completely without an attempt to recover it? it will be in these delightful, graceful, old national dances that our girls will, like the daughter of philipater in the _spectator_, dance themselves into our esteem, as it is pretty sure that in the approved fashion of waltzing they will dance themselves out of it. [illustration] chapter viii. old roads. [illustration] practical inconvenience attends living at the junction of the is-not and the is. to make myself better understood, i must explain. on october th, , colonel mudge published the ordnance survey of the county which i grace with my presence. in that map he entered a _proposed road_, running about four miles from n. to s. through my property, and in front of my house. i was not alive at the time, so the expression "my house" is inexact, it was the house of my grandfather. this proposed road was to be a main artery of traffic, and a county road,--but it was never carried out. to carry it out would have been inconvenient, as the walled garden of the house, with very good jargonelle and bon-chrétien pears lies athwart the proposed course, and an ancient black fig-tree that produces abundantly every year grows precisely on the site of the proposed road. i presume that my grandfather raised objections. anyhow the road was never made. however, since the survey of , map-makers--convinced that what was then proposed has been in effect carried out--have systematically entered this road as an accomplished fact. now perhaps the reader can understand what it is to live on the point of junction of the is and is-not. the road indicated on the maps _is not_ in existence, and yet the public consider, on the authority of the maps, that it _is_. then, again, i live in another way on the _is_ and _is-not_. in a new and excellent road--now a county road--was carried at right angles to the proposed road, leading into the old high-road about a mile and a half from my house, and connecting that old high-road with the principal market town of the district, about nine miles off. before this was constructed, the old way ran up hill and down dale in a series of scrambles, straight as an arrow; and one stretch of this road is now utterly impassable, it is simply a water-course, and a torrent rushes down it in a series of cascades over steps of slate-rock in winter, and after rain. now--will it be believed?--just as the maps have accepted the proposed road as if it had really been made, because it was marked by col. mudge, so they have all ignored this main county road, because it did not exist in the days of col. mudge, and they persist in giving the old road, and ignoring the new one, that makes a great sweep through valleys, and indeed describes two sides of an obtuse-angled triangle, of which the old road forms the hypothenuse. now the reader will understand even more clearly how it is that i live on the what is, yet is not. the road is there--rates are paid to keep it up, and yet--it is not in any map, though it has been in existence for more than half a century. now for the practical inconvenience. one day i saw a party of men with guns walking across my grounds, in front of my house. i knew they had been poaching, and so i rushed out after them. "what are you about? why are you trespassing?" i roared. one of them pulled out a map and pointed. "we are going along the queen's highway. double black edges mark a main road. we cannot be trespassing." i was silenced. one day i found school-boys in my walled garden eating my bon-chrétien pears. i ordered them off, threatening them with vengeance. "please, sir, we did not know we were doing wrong. on the map we saw that this was a highway, and we thought we were at liberty to take anything that grows on the road." bad maps and over-education had robbed me of my bon-chrétien pears. that is the disadvantage of living on or near the site of a road that is not, but which the authorities that enlighten the minds of the ignorant assert to be. my notion is, that the press is the great instrument for the diffusion of false information among the masses. nothing will break that conviction in me. an acquaintance was staying at the market town, and i invited him over to dinner. he hired a trap and drove himself. he had the map, he could manage, he said. he never arrived. trusting to the map, he had gone by the old road, and had been precipitated down the cascade. the horse had fallen, the trap was smashed, and my friend's hip was dislocated. so now every one can see that there really is great practical inconvenience in living at the junction of the is-not yet is, or the is and is-not. i have a coachman who has been in the family for seventy-five years, and is one of the last surviving representatives of the all-but-extinct race of caleb balderstone. this old man remembers the state of the country before most of the new roads were made, before macadam's system was introduced, and very curious stories he can tell of the old roads, and the travelling thereon. formerly the roads were--not exactly paved, but made by the thrusting of big stones into holes which they more or less adequately filled. then on top of all were put smaller stones, picked up from the fields, and not broken at all. as i have got the old road near my gates, for about a mile, closed to all but foot-passengers--though the maps persist in attempting to send carriages over it--i can see exactly what they were. this bit of road is cut between banks eight and nine feet high, has been sawn through soil and rock by the traffic of centuries, assisted by streams of water in winter. the floor is a series of rocky steps, and i can recall when these steps were eased to the traveller by the heaping of boulders on them producing a rude slope. but as with every heavy rain a rush of water went down this road, it dislodged the boulders, and woe betide the horse descending the steep declivity of loosely distributed rolling stones on an irregular and fragile stair of slates. my great-great-grandmother had a famous black bull. the contemporary duke of b., who was a fancier of cattle, wanted to buy it, but madam refused to sell. again he sent over, offering double what he had offered before, but was again refused. then said the duke, "tell madam, that if she will sell me that bull, i will gallop my horse down the road without saddle or bridle." she sent him the bull as a present, without exacting the ride, which would have in all likelihood cost him his life. in old novels the sinking of the wheel of a chaise in a mud-hole, or the breakage of the carriage, is an ordinary and oft-recurring incident. the wonder to me is, that chaises ever made any progress over these old roads without being splintered to atoms. how was it that china, glass, mirrors, ever reached the country houses intact? i applied to my coachman. [illustration: packman's way by a river-side.] "well, sir, you see, nothing was carried in waggons then, but on packhorses, that is to say, no perishable goods. my grandfather was a packman. those were rare times." and he showed me the old packmen's traces, across the woods where now trees grow of fifty years' standing. indeed, alongside of many modernized roads the old packmen's courses may still be traced. there was great skill required in packing; the packhorse had crooks on its back, and the goods were hung to these crooks. the crooks were formed of two poles, about ten feet long, bent when green into the required curve, and when dried in that shape were connected by horizontal bars. a pair of crooks, thus completed, was slung over the pack-saddle, one swinging on each side, to make the balance true. the short crooks, called _crubs_, were slung in a similar manner. these were of stouter fabric, and formed an angle; these were used for carrying heavy materials. i shall doubtless be excused if i quote some old verses written fifty years ago, comparing marriage to a devonshire lane, but which will equally apply to any old road-- "in a devonshire lane, as i trotted along t'other day, much in want of a subject for song, thinks i to myself, i have hit on a strain, sure marriage is much like a devonshire lane. in the first place 'tis long, and when once you are in it, it holds you as fast as a cage does a linnet; for howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, drive forward you must, there is no turning round. but though 'tis so long, it is not very wide, for two are the most that together can ride; and e'en then, 'tis a chance, but they get in a pother, and jostle and cross and run foul of each other. oft poverty greets them with mendicant looks, and care pushes by them, o'er-laden with crooks; and strife's grazing wheels try between them to pass, and stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass. then the banks are so high, to the left hand and right, that they shut out the beauties around them from sight; and hence you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain, that marriage is just like a devonshire lane! but thinks i too, these banks, within which we are pent, with bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent; and the conjugal fence, which forbids us to roam, looks lovely when decked with the comforts of home. in the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows; the ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose, and the evergreen love of a virtuous wife soothes the roughness of care,--cheers the winter of life. then long be the journey, and narrow the way, i'll rejoice that i've seldom a turnpike to pay; and whate'er others say, be the last to complain, though marriage be just like a devonshire lane." [illustration: by the road-side.] "ah, sir!" said my old coachman, "them was jolly times. the packmen used to travel in a lot together, and when they put up at an inn for the night, there was fun;--not but what they was a bit rough-like. i mind when one day they found a jackass straying, and didn't know whose it was, nor didn't ask either. they cut handfuls of rushes, and with cords they swaddled the ass up with rushes, and then set alight to him. well, sir, that ass ran blazing like a fireball for four miles before he dropped. them was jolly times." "not for asses, caleb?" "certainly not for asses." "but why did the packmen travel together, caleb?" "well, sir, you see, packmen at times carried a lot o' money about with them; and it did happen now and then that lonely packmen were robbed and murdered." "then hardly jolly times for packmen?" "well, i don't know," answered balderstone, drawing his hand and whip across his mouth. "there was packmen then, and perhaps just here and there one got murdered; but now they are _all_ put out of the way, which is worst of all." after a little consideration caleb went on--"now, i mind a curious circumstance that happened when i was a young man, just about sixty years ago. at that time there were no shops about, and once or twice in the year i was sent with a waggon and a team up to the county town (thirty-five miles off) to bring down groceries and all sorts o' things for the year. i used to start at four in the morning. one autumn morning i had started before daybreak, and i lay in the covered waggon, and the two horses they knew the road and went on. but all at once both halted, and though i cracked my whip they would not stir. i got out with the lantern, and saw that they were all of a tremble, both with their heads down looking at something, apparently, in the road. i moved the lantern about, but could see nothing in the road, and then i coaxed the horses, but they would not stir a step; then i whipped them. all at once both together gave a leap into the air, just as if they were leaping a gate, and away they dashed along the road for a mile afore i could stop them, and then they were sweating as if they had been raced in a steeplechase, and covered with foam, and trembling still. now i was away two days, and on the third i came back, and the curious thing is--when i came back i heard that a packer had been robbed and murdered whilst i was away at that very spot, and where my horses had leaped it was over the exact place where the dead man was found lying twenty-four hours later. if they'd jumped after the murder i'd have thought nothing of it, but they jumped before the man was killed." road-making was formerly intrusted to the parochial authorities, and there was no supervision. it was carried out in slovenly and always in an unsystematic manner. in adopting a direct or circuitous line of way, innumerable predilections interfered, and parishes not infrequently quarrelled about the roads. the dispute between broad and narrow gauges raged long before railway lines were laid. a market town and a seaport would naturally desire to have ample verge and room enough on their highways for the transport of grain and other commodities from the interior, and for carriage of manufactured goods, or importations to the interior. on the other hand, isolated parishes would contend that driftways sufficed for their demands, and that they could house their crops, or bring their flour from the mill through the same ruts which had served their forefathers. after the civil wars an impetus was given to road-making; an act was passed authorizing a small toll to pay for the maintenance of the highways. the turnpike gate was originally a bar supported on two posts on the opposite sides of the road, and the collector sat in the open air at his seat of custom. i remember fifty years ago travelling in germany, where at the toll-gate was a little house; one end of the bar was heavily weighted, the other fastened by a chain that led into the turnpike man's room. the toll-man thrust forth a pole with a bag at the end, into which the coin was put, he drew in the bag at his window, unhooked the chain, and the weight sent the bar flying up, the carriage passed under, and then the bar was pulled down again. the people did not see the advantage of the toll-bar when first introduced, and riots broke out. the road surveyor was mobbed and beaten, the toll-bar was torn away and burnt. even with systematic mending, the old roads were bad, for the true principle on which roads should be made was not known. john loudon macadam, born , died , was the first to draw attention to the proper mode of road-making. he was an american, of scottish descent. in he published _a practical essay on the scientific repair and preservation of public roads_, and in , _remarks on the present state of road-making_. how little science was thought to have to do with the roads may be judged from the fact, that under the heading of roads, the old _encyclopædia britannica_ of has not a word to say. "road-making!" one may suppose a surveyor of that period to have said, "any fool can make a road. if one finds a hole anywhere, clap a stone into it." i have walked over the st. gotthard pass, and there we have the old road traceable in many places, and we can compare it with the new road. the old one was paved here and there rudely. some of our old english roads were likewise paved. macadam's principle was this. make all roads with the highest point in the middle, then the water runs off it, instead of--as in the old roads--lodging in the middle. next, do not pave the road at all, but lay in a bottom--metal it--with broken stones, to the depth of six or eight inches, and then cover these with another layer, broken smaller, to the depth of two or three inches. then all will be welded together into a compact and smooth mass. macadam originally proposed that the small upper coat of stones should be laid on in a corduroy fashion across the road, but this was abandoned for an uniform covering, as more speedily applied, and more effective. what a time people took formerly in travelling over old roads! there is a house just two miles distant from mine, by the new unmapped road. before , when that road was made, it was reached in so circuitous a manner, and by such bad lanes, and across an unbridged river, that my grandfather and his family when they dined with our neighbours, two miles off, always spent the night at their house. in , a rich gentleman, who had lived in a house of business in lisbon, and had made his fortune, returned to england, and resolved to revisit his paternal home in norfolk. his wish was further stimulated by the circumstance that his sister and sole surviving relative dwelt beside one of the great broads, where he thought he might combine some shooting with the pleasure of renewing his friendships of childhood. from london to norwich his way was tolerably smooth and prosperous, and by the aid of a mail coach he performed the journey in three days. but now commenced his difficulties. between the capital and his sister's dwelling lay twenty miles of country roads. he ordered a coach and six, and set forth on his fraternal quest. the six hired horses, although of strong flanders breed, were soon engulfed in a black miry pool, his coach followed, and the merchant was dragged out of the window by two cowherds, and mounted on one of the wheelers; he was brought back to norwich, and nothing could ever induce him to resume the search for his sister, and to revisit his ancestral home. [illustration: francis masey an old travelling carriage] the death of good queen bess was not known in some of the remoter parishes of devon and in cornwall until the court mourning for her had been laid aside; and in the churches of orkney prayers were put up for king james ii. three months after he had abdicated. "however," i asked of caleb, "could the huge masses of granite have been moved that form the pillars in the church, and the gate-posts, and the fireplace in the hall?" "well, sir, on truckamucks." "truckamucks!" "in the old times they didn't have wheels, but a sort of cart with the ends of the shafts carried out behind and dragging on the ground. in fact, the cart was nothing but two young trees, and the roots dragged, and the tops were fastened to the horse. when they wanted to move a heavy weight they used four trees, and lashed the middle ones together." "no carts or waggons, then?" "only one waggon in the parish, and that your grandfather's, and that could travel only on the high-road. not many other conveyances either." it is a marvel to us how the old china and glass travelled in those days; but the packer was a man of infinite care and skill in the management of fragile wares. does the reader remember the time when all such goods were brought by carriers? how often they got broken if intrusted to the stage-coaches, how rarely if they came by the carrier. the carrier's waggon was securely packed, and time was of no object to the driver, he went very slowly and very carefully over bad ground. the carrier's life was a very jolly one, and few songs were more popular in the west of england than that of _the jolly waggoner_-- "when first i went a-waggoning, a-waggoning did go, i filled my parents' hearts with sorrow, trouble, grief, and woe; and many are the hardships too, that since i have gone through. sing wo! my lads, sing wo! drive on, my lads, heigh-ho! who would not live the life of the jolly waggoner? it is a cold and stormy night, and i'm wet to the skin, i'll bear it with contentment till i get to the inn, and then i'll sit a-drinking with the landlord and his kin. sing wo! &c. now summer is a-coming on--what pleasure we shall see! the small birds blithely singing, so sweet on every tree, the blackbirds and the thrushes, too, are whistling merrily. sing wo! &c. now michaelmas is coming--what pleasure we shall find! 'twill make the gold to fly, my lads, like chaff before the wind, and every lad shall kiss his lass, so loving and so kind. sing wo! &c." since the introduction of steam two additional verses have been added to this song-- "along the country roads, alas! but waggons few are seen, the world is topsy-turvy turned, and all things go by steam, and all the past is passed away, like to a morning dream. sing wo! &c. the landlords cry, what shall we do? our business is no more, the railroad it has ruined us, who badly fared before; 'tis luck and gold to one or two, but ruined are a score. sing wo! &c." the leathern belt worn by the groom nowadays is the survival of the strap to which the lady held, as she sat on a pillion behind her groom. the horses ridden in those days must have been strong, or the distances not considerable, and the pace moderate, for to carry two full-grown persons cannot have been a trifle for a horse on bad roads. "it is of some importance," said sydney smith, "at what period a man is born. a young man alive at this period hardly knows to what improvements of human life he has been introduced; and i would bring before his notice the changes that have taken place in england since i began to breathe the breath of life--a period of seventy years. i have been nine hours sailing from dover to calais before the invention of steam. it took me nine hours to go from taunton to bath before the invention of railroads. in going from taunton to bath i suffered between ten thousand and twelve thousand severe contusions before stone-breaking macadam was born. i paid fifteen pounds in a single year for repair of carriage-springs on the pavement of london, and i now glide without noise or fracture on wooden pavement. i can walk without molestation from one end of london to another; or, if tired, get into a cheap and active cab, instead of those cottages on wheels which the hackney coaches were at the beginning of my life. i forgot to add, that as the basket of the stage-coaches in which luggage was then carried had no springs, your clothes were rubbed all to pieces; and that even in the best society, one-third of the gentlemen were always drunk. i am now ashamed that i was not formerly more discontented, and am utterly surprised that all these changes and inventions did not occur two centuries ago." [illustration] chapter ix. family portraits. [illustration] one day a very grand and, as she conceived, original idea came into my grandmothers head. she was resolved to represent pictorially, on a sheet of cartridge-paper, all the confluent streams of blood in her children's veins, of the families to which they were entitled to draw blood through past alliances. so my grandmother got out her ruler and colour-box, and a pallet and brushes, and filled a little glass with water. presently a pedigree was drawn out by the aid of compasses and a parallel ruler. then she rubbed her paints and set to work colouring. she dabbed some vermilion on father a, and gamboge on mother b; then on the next in the same generation, father c, she put sage-green; and his wife, mother d, she indicated with prussian blue. the son of vermilion a and gamboge b was r. that was simple enough; in his arteries flowed a vivid tide of combined vermilion and gamboge. he married s, who was the offspring of sage-green c and prussian blue d; consequently her arteries were flowing with rather a dingy mixture of sage-green and prussian blue. now r and s had a child, p, and his veins were charged with a combination of vermilion and gamboge and sage-green and prussian blue. when my grandmother had got so far, she bit the end of her paint-brush; for p, who was her husband's father, of course married, and her mother-in-law must be also represented by a combination of four colours. she took the end of the brush out of her mouth and rubbed emerald green and carmine. e and f should symbolize her husband's mother's grandparents. e brought into the family a stream of carmine blood, and f one of vivid emerald. then the veins of her step-mother represented a mixed tide of carmine and emerald and of two other families, as yet unindicated. to these she promptly appropriated violet and orange. now at last was she able to tabulate the constituents of her husband's blood; it was composed of minute rills of vermilion, gamboge, sage-green, prussian blue, carmine, emerald green, violet, and orange. already she had trenched on the composite colours. now a great dismay fell on my grandmother; for she had to complete the same process for the exemplification of her own blood; and for her ancestry not only were no primary colours left, but even no secondary. she had to represent them with brown, lavender, slate,--yes, oh joy! there was another blue, cobalt!--verdegris, lemon yellow, black, and white. she hesitated some while before employing the verdegris. she never completed that table; for she was aghast at the rivers of mud, literal mud, which, according to her scheme, flowed through the arteries of her offspring. now look at this table. consider, it is only one of a pedigree through five generations. [illustration: (vermilion) a = --+ (gamboge) b | r paternal = grand- (sage-gr.) c | s father ---+ = --+ | (prus. bl.) d | = --+ (carmine) e | | (verm. + = --+ | | gamb. + (emerald) f | t paternal -+ | sage-gr. + = grand- | pruss. bl. + (violet) g | u mother | carm. + = --+ | emerald + (orange) h father violet + = self orange + (brown) i mother br. + = --+ | lav. + (lavender) k | v maternal | slate + = grand- | cob. + (slate) l | x father ---+ | verd. + = --+ | | lemon + (cobalt) m | | black + = --+ white.) (verdegris) n | = --+ | (lemon) o | y maternal -+ = grand- (black) p | z mother = --+ (white) q ] every one of my readers, every human being, nay, every beast, and bird, and fish, and reptile, represents the ancestors of four generations, that means independent streams of blood in the fifth generation, and currents in the tenth generation, and , rivulets of distinct blood in the fifteenth generation, and , , , if we go back to the twentieth generation. take thirty years as a generation, then, in the reign of henry iii., there were over a million independent individuals, walking, talking, eating, marrying, whose united blood was to be, in , blended in your veins. why, that ogre of a sailor in the bab ballads, who represented a whole ship's crew, because, when shipwrecked, he had eaten them, is nothing to you. the whole population of london, of middlesex, was not a million, then. you represent a large county--yorkshire, for instance. our arteries are very sluices, through which an incredible amount of confluent rills unite to rush, the drainage of the whole social country-side. such being the case, does it not seem a farce to talk about family types, and family likenesses, and family peculiarities beyond one or two generations at most? and yet it is not a farce; for what comes out abundantly clear is, that certain streams are stronger than others, and colour and affect for several generations the quality of the blood with which they mingle. not so only, but earlier types reappear after the lapse of time as distinct as though there had been no intermediate blood mixture, as though there had been filiation by gemmation, as is the case with sponges. one day i was visiting a friend, when i was struck by the excellence of a portrait in his hall of a very refined and beautiful old lady; there was nothing characteristic in the dress. being a fancier in portraiture, and being mightily ill-contented with modern portrait-painting, this picture pleased me especially; it was a picture as well as a portrait, harmonious in colour and tone, and artistically focussed. moreover, it was a perfectly life-like "presentiment" of my friend's wife. he and she were both old people. said i to my friend, "what an admirable likeness! the artist has not only made a good picture, but he has caught your wife's expression as well as features and peculiar colouring. who is the painter? i did not know we had the man nowadays who could have painted such a portrait." "oh," he answered, "that is not my wife--it is her great-grandmother." thus the wife represented _four_ united streams of two generations back, but she represented in face, and represented exactly, only one of them. now for another instance. in a certain family that i know intimately, a son and a female cousin are as much alike as though they were twin brother and sister; what is the more remarkable is, that they deviate altogether from the type of their brothers and sisters, parents, uncles, and aunts. _but_, and here is the curious fact, they resemble, even ludicrously, an ancestor whose miniature and portrait in oils are in the possession of the family. i draw out the pedigree. i must premise that the portrait is of a gentleman in forget-me-not blue velvet, and he goes in the family by the name of the blue man. [illustration: blue man = a | | | b = c | | d = e | | +--------+---+ | | | | g = f h = i | | | | +---+ +---+ | | | | m n ] m and n are the cousins, male and female, who are as alike as twins, and they are exact reproductions of the blue man, notwithstanding that through c, d, g, and i come in fresh streams of blood, that two entirely independent rivers flush the veins of m and n respectively, coming in from g and i. they have the blood of c and d in common, but alike disregard their qualities; so also do they reject the blood of their respective mothers, and go back to a common ancestor in the reign of queen anne. but i can give a still more remarkable instance of atavism, which also must be illustrated by a table. here the likeness goes back even further, and, like that above, also through the maternal line. there is in the same old manor-house as that in which hangs the blue man another picture, painted by carlo maratti, in or about , of a certain sir edward, a dandy, in long flowing curls, a beautiful steenkirk, a cherry ribbon round his neck, and also about his wrists. the face is fine, haughty, somewhat dreamy. it was painted of him when he was a young man of about five-and-twenty. hanging near him is his elder brother, also with flowing hair, a bluff, good-natured man in appearance, quite different in character from the knight, one may judge, and certainly not like him in feature. now the knight, sir edward, died without issue, and left all his property to his great-nephew, the grandson of his elder brother james. that nephew bought estates in nottinghamshire, and for two hundred years the family he founded has been apart from the elder branch, which lives in the west of england, and which owns the picture. [illustration: sir edward, a.d. . _from a painting by_ carlo maratti.] [illustration: n. a.d. . _from a photograph._] one day recently there came into the neighbourhood a descendant of james, and calling at the house of his kinsman, unconsciously seated himself beneath the picture of sir edward. he was a young man of about four-and-twenty. he was at once greeted with an exclamation of astonishment and amusement. he was extraordinarily like the portrait; had he but been dressed in stamped black velvet, worn curls, a steenkirk, and cherry ribbons, he might have been the same man. now look at this pedigree, and note the remarkable fact. he did not hail from the knight, whom he resembled, but from his brother james, whom he did not resemble. the knight, sir edward, must therefore have inherited the features of an earlier ancestor, who was also, of course, the ancestor of his brother; so that this young man in bore the face and features of a still earlier member of the family, whose likeness has not been preserved, if it were ever taken. here is a family likeness going back six or seven generations. we cannot be certain that the characteristic features of sir edward were derived from his father or his mother. nor is this likeness found only in n. it exists also in his father l, though not in so strong a degree, or, at all events, it is less apparent in an old man of sixty than in a young man of four-and-twenty. curiously enough, the portrait of elizabeth, the ancestress through whom these two, l and n, derive their likeness to sir edward, shows none of these characteristics. they remained latent in her, but reappeared in her grandson and great-grandson. unfortunately the pictures of d and f, who intervened, have not been preserved, or their whereabouts have not been discovered, so that it is not possible to track the likeness through two generations that intervene between elizabeth in and james in . [illustration: a = b b. . | m. . + . | + . +-----------------+------------+ | | sir edward james = c b. . b. . | m. . + . + . | + . +-----+ | d = e b. . | m. . + . | + . +----+ | f = g | m. . + . | + . +------------+ | h = elizabeth | m. . + . | + . +-----+ | i = k + . | m. . +-----+ | l = m b. . | +-----+ | n ] it has been conjectured that a child sitting daily in the presence of a certain portrait insensibly assumes a likeness to it; but such a conjecture will not satisfy the case just mentioned, for l and n till recently had never seen the picture which they so closely resembled. there is another point connected with family portraits that has given me occasion of thought and speculation; and that is, the way in which those children who are named after an ancestor or ancestress sometimes, i do not say often or always, but certainly sometimes, do in a very remarkable manner receive the stamp of the features of that ancestor after whom named. this has nothing to do with the naming of the child at baptism because of a supposed resemblance, for in very young infants none such can be traced, but the likeness grows in the child to the person whose name it bears. now here is a bit of pedigree, with the likenesses that exist curiously agreeing with the christian names. in this relation of a new generation to an old there is a point to be remarked. e^ is in character, in manner, and in tastes and pursuits exactly what e was, but does _not_ resemble him in face. w d^ is just like w d, his great-great-great-grandfather, whose double christian name he bears. m b^ and m b^ are like m b in face, and m b^ resembles her great-great-grandmother in face and in character. d a^ is absurdly like her great-grandmother, whose double name she bears, but is as yet too young for the mental characteristics to show themselves, or at all events to have become sufficiently emphasized to enable one to say whether, in mind as in face, she resembles her great-grandmother. [illustration: w d = m b | +---+ | c b = m | +---+ | w d = d a | +---+ | e = s c | +----------+-+ | | m b^ s = g t | +--------+-------+---+---+ | | | | e^ w d^ m b^ d a^ ] now this may be accidental, but if so, it is a very curious and remarkable accident. noticing it in other cases, i have sometimes wondered whether there may be in it more than accident. the old norsemen believed that by calling a child after a certain great man, some of that great man's luck and spiritual force passed with his name to the child. the idea among roman catholic parents of giving their offspring the names of saints is, that they put the children under the special patronage, influence, and tutelage of the saint after whom they are called. now--is there in these ideas anything more than a fancy, a delusion, a superstition? is it possible that a mysterious effluence should pass from the spirit of the departed to the child that reproduces his or her name, and that this effluence should affect, modify, and impress the features and character of the child? it is remarkable the way in which tricks perpetuate themselves. i know some one who, when a boy, had to be broken of the absurd habit of slapping the sole of his right boot with his right hand every now and then behind his back, as he walked. an old aunt saw him do this one day, and she said, "how odd! we had a world of trouble with his father when he was a child--about this very thing." [illustration: lady northcote (jacquetta baring).] [illustration: lady young (emily baring).] i may, in connection with this, mention a personal matter. my paternal grandfather's sister, jacquetta baring, married sir stafford northcote, in ; she was the grandmother of the late lord iddesleigh, who was, accordingly, my cousin, but whom i never met. one day i was with one of his sons, who, whilst in conversation with me, laughed, and then said, "excuse me, but there are many little ways you have, both of turn of the head and movements of the hand, that bring my father continually before my mind whilst you are speaking with me." these little tricks of manner are therefore not personal, are not the result of association and imitation, but travel through the blood. but to return to family portraits. that, in spite of the influx of fresh blood from all quarters, a certain family type remains, one can hardly doubt in looking through a genuine series of family pictures. i knew a case of an artist who had been employed in a certain house, where he had become familiar with the family portraits, which he had cleaned, relined and restored. some of the early pictures of the family had been lost, in fact sold, by a spendthrift--another charles surface--who did not shrink from disposing of his mother's picture by sir joshua reynolds. the head of the family knew where some two or three of these pictures had gone; they had been bought by a family akin to his, and the representative of that family very kindly acceded to his request that he might have them copied. the artist was sent to that gentleman's house to do what was desired. he was introduced into the dining-room, where hung over a score of portraits, but he went directly to the two which belonged to the family whose paintings he had cleaned, singled them out from the rest, and said, "these i am sure belong to the x--s. i know the type of face." he was right; he had spotted the only two which were not pictures of the a family, but were of the family x. the delight of watching the re-emergence of a disappeared family likeness, as generations pass, is, no doubt, the chief delight of having a good series of family pictures. but there is an advantage in such a series which is not perhaps much considered, and that is the linking of the present generation in thought with the past. since, with the reformation, prayer for the dead ceased, our association with the world of the departed has fallen into total disregard, and we neither think of holding any communion of thought and good-will with our forebears, nor suppose that they can entertain any kindly thought of and wishes for us and our welfare. and yet, how much we owe them! our beautiful estates, our dear old houses, the laying out of the parks and grounds, the cutting of the terraces, the digging of the ponds, the planting of the stately trees, the gathering together of our plate, our books, our pictures, our old furniture. nay, more, if we have not inherited these, we have from them some twists in our mind, some terms in our speech, some physical or psychical characteristics, some virtues and some faults. we owe to those old people more than we suppose. to their self-restraint, their guileless walk, their frugal ways, we owe our own hale bodies and strict consciences. consider what misery a strain of tainted blood brings into a family--a strain of blood that carries vicious propensities with it. well, if we have good in us, if we are scrupulous, honest, truthful, self-controlled, it comes to us in a large measure along with our pure blood from honest ancestry. how can we sit in the beautiful halls and panelled boudoirs of the old people, and not be thankful to them for having made them so charming? how can we walk in the avenues they planted, pick the flowering shrubs they grouped and bedded, and not be grateful to them? to plant a tree is a most unselfish work, for very few men live to see the trees they have planted reach such a size as to give pleasure to themselves. men plant for their sons and grandsons; and their sons and grandsons who enjoy these trees should think for a moment of those to whose forethought they owe them. i confess i like, when i have enjoyed the beauty of some avenue, or clump of stately trees, to look at the picture of the planter of them, and say, "thank you, dear old man, for the pleasure you have given to me, and will give to my children after me." we have something yet to learn from the chinese. the only religion of the celestials is the worship of their ancestors. every race probably inherits some truth that it can and is destined to impart to the world. the chinese lack the deeper vision which can look up to the great father of spirits above, but yet from them we may acquire thought of and love for our forebears. "they are all gone into a world of light, and i alone sit lingering here! their very memory is fair and bright, and my sad thoughts does clear. it glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, like stars upon some gloomy grove; or those faint beams in which this hill is dressed after the sun's remove." so sang vaughan, a poet of the restoration; and if one attempts it one can feel with him, that it is a pleasure and a rest to think of, and cultivate affection for, those of our family who belong to the past. in many an old mansion the story goes that an ancestor or ancestress _walks_ there, is to be seen occasionally between the glimpses of the moon visiting the old house, and generally as foretoken of some event intimately concerning the family. such a story is common enough. we think that possibly these ancient ghosts may reappear to acquaint themselves how we are getting on, but it never occurs to us to visit them, and walk in spirit their desolate region, and cheer them with a kindly expression, and a word of good-will. well, i think that a set of family portraits does help one to that, does link us somehow to these dead forefathers, and serves as a vehicle of mental communication between us. then, again, the family scamp is of use. we had one in our family. i am thankful to say we do not inherit his wild blood, as he died unmarried. he sold the bulk of the ancestral estates, and got rid of everything he could get rid of. but then--since his death he has stood as a warning to each successive generation. the children go before his picture and hear the story of his misdeeds, and it sinks into their hearts, and they learn frugality. they go over the acres that would have been theirs, _but for the scamp_; they see the old mansion, a quadrangle, which they would have had a dance about, _had it not been for the scamp_; they know that there are gaps in the series of family portraiture, because _the pictures were sold by the scamp_; and so they grow up with great fear in their minds lest they also should by any chance be even as he; and so the scamp is of good after all. [illustration] chapter x. the village musician. [illustration] the press and the railway are sweeping away all the old individualities and peculiarities that marked the country. it has been said, and said truly, that the railway has abolished everywhere in europe a local _cuisine_, so that the traveller, whether in england, france, in italy, russia, at constantinople, and even at cairo, has the same _menu_ at _table-d'hôte_. there was a time when, by travelling, you could pick up culinary ideas. that time is now past. you find exactly the same dishes, served in the same order, everywhere; and when fowl and salad come on, you know everywhere that the meat courses have arrived at their full stop. costumes also are disappearing everywhere, no men now wear them, hardly any women, except a few artists' models on the steps of the trinità at rome, and a few german tourists who dress up like mountaineers when excursioning among the tyrolean alps. it is said that the chinese all dress alike, think alike, talk alike, act alike, eat the same food, take the same amusements, and look alike. civilization is making us all chinese, we are losing our individuality and our independence, and, it must be admitted, casting away behind us what constituted the picturesqueness and variety of life. in the old times in country places, away from towns, there was much that was of interest; men and women had then quaint ways, stood out as characters, and impressed themselves on those who were around them. now, all are afraid of being peculiar, of not being like every one else, of using a word, doing an act, thinking a thought which has not the sanction of--vulgarity, in the true acceptation of the term, according to its derivation--of being _common_. one looks back, with a little compunction, on those old times. there was a freshness and charm about them which can never be recovered. every one in a village knew every one else, and all his belongings; every one was related, and a stranger from a few miles off passed as a foreigner. to "go foreign" was to leave the parish. this was, of course, carried to extraordinary lengths in some places, and neighbouring villages regarded each other with traditional jealousy. this was not commendable. there is a story told of two villages, one called mary tavy, the adjoining called peter tavy, that is to say, st. mary on the tavy and st. peter on the tavy, on the borders of dartmoor, that regarded each other for ages with animosity. one day after a storm of rain the river tavy rolled down volumes of water, and a poor wretch was caught by the flood on a rock in mid-stream; he was unable to reach the bank. he screamed for assistance. presently a man came along the side and halted, and called to the fellow in danger, "i say, be you a peter tavy or a mary tavy man?" "peter tavy," answered the wretch in danger. "throw me a rope, or i shall be drownded." "no, no," answered he on the land, "i be a mary tavy man; so go on hollering till a peter tavy chap comes by;" and he left the fellow in distress to his fate. this exclusiveness had its bad side, but it had its redeeming side also. there can be no question that the force of popular feeling, the sense of relationship, the feeling of belonging to a certain village, or class, did act as a strong moral support to many a young man and woman. they felt that they dared not bring disgrace on their whole class, or village, by misconduct. the sense of belonging to, being one member of a community, in which, if one member were honoured, all the members rejoiced with it, and if one were disgraced, the humiliation fell on all, was very strong and tough. that is to an immense extent gone, and can never be restored. we are all cosmopolitan now, and live and die to ourselves. but let us come to some of the peculiar features of old village life, before there were railways, and when the post did not come every day. [illustration: old church orchestra.] at that time most villages had their feasts, revels, harvest homes, ringers' suppers, shearing feasts, and other entertainments. some of us can remember when in the village churches the gallery was occupied by the village band, fiddles and viol, ophicleide, flute &c. they were done away with, and the hand-organ took its place in some churches, a real organ or a harmonium in others. it was a sad mistake of the clergy to try to abolish the old orchestra;--no doubt the playing was not very good, and the instruments were out of tune; no doubt also there was much quarrelling and little harmony among the performers, but an institution should be improved, not abolished. that gave the death-blow to instrumental music in our villages. previously the smallest village had its half-dozen men who could play on some instruments. now you find that there are half a dozen boys who can manage the concertina--that is all. these instrumentalists attended all the festivities in a village, wakes, harvest homes, revels, and weddings, and were well received and well treated. they played old country dances, old ballads, old concerted pieces of no ordinary merit. in some parish chests may be found volumes of rudely written music, which belonged to these performers, mostly sacred, but not always so. when in james i. was making a progress through lancashire, he found that the puritan magistrates had prohibited and unlawfully punished the people for using their "lawful recreations and honest exercises" on holidays; and next year he issued a declaration concerning sports and merry-makings, such as may-games, morris-dances, whitsun-ales, the setting up of maypoles; and james very wisely said, "if these be taken away from the meaner sort, who labour hard all the week, they will have no recreations at all to refresh their spirits; and in place thereof it will set up filthy tipplings and drunkenness, and breed a number of idle and discontented speeches in their ale-houses." also it would "hinder the conversion of many, whom their priests will take occasion hereby to vex, persuading them that no honest mirth or recreation is lawfully tolerable in our religion." at the present day we hardly realize the extent to which music was cultivated in old times, so that england--not italy, germany, or france--was the great musical nation of europe. what astonished foreigners, when they visited england in the reign of henry viii. and elizabeth, was the perfection to which music was brought here, and the widespread knowledge of music that prevailed. france had its music school created by sully, a florentine by birth, who was placed at the head of a band of violins by louis xiv. at that time "not half the musicians of france were able to play at sight." even that band, got together with difficulty, could play nothing at sight. nor did sully effect any great reform in this respect, for when the regent, duke of orleans, wished to hear corelli's sonatas, which were newly brought from rome, no three persons were to be found in paris who could play them, and he was obliged to content himself with having them sung to him by three voices. on the other hand, in england at that time every gentleman was expected to be able either to sing a part at sight, or play a part on some instrument or other. as a regular thing after supper, the party in a country house adjourned to the music-room, and there spent the rest of the evening in singing or in instrumental music. nor was this knowledge of music confined to the upper classes. a curious instance of this we find in pepys' diary. that diary extends between the years - . in the course of his diary, four maids are mentioned as being in his household, to attend on his wife, and a boy who waited on himself. all of these seem to have possessed, as an ordinary qualification, some musical skill and knowledge. of the first of the serving-maids he says (november , ), "after dinner, talking with my wife, and making mrs. gosnell (the maid) sing--i am mightily pleased with her humour and singing." and again, on december , "she sings exceedingly well." within a few months gosnell was succeeded by mary ashwell; and he tells us in march, "i heard ashwell play first upon the harpsicon, and i find she do play pretty well. then home by coach, buying at the temple the printed virginal book for her." the harpsicon and the virginal were the pianofortes of the period, something like square pianos; in the virginal the strings were struck by quills. of the third maid mrs. pepys had, mary mercer, he says on september , , that she was "a pretty, modest, quiet maid. after dinner my wife and mercer, tom (the boy) and i, sat till eleven at night, singing and fiddling, and a great joy it is to see me master of so much pleasure in my house. the girle (mercer) plays pretty well upon the harpsicon, but only ordinary tunes, but hath a good hand; sings a little, but hath a good voyce and eare. my boy, a brave boy, sings finely, and is the most pleasant boy at present, while his ignorant boy's tricks last, that ever i see." after some time mercer went to see her mother, and mrs. pepys, finding her absent without leave, went after her, found her in her mother's house, and there _beat her_. the mother having urged that mary was "not a common prentice girl," and therefore ought not to have been thus chastized, mrs. pepys construed it into a question of her right to inflict corporal chastisement, and dismissed mary. in october, , says pepys, "my wife brought a new girle. she is wretched poor, and but ordinary favoured, and we fain to lay out seven or eight pounds worth of clothes upon her back: and i do not think i can esteem her as i could have done another, that had come fine and handsome; and, which is more, her voice, through want of use, is so furred that it do not at present please me; but her manner of singing is such that i shall, i think, take great pleasure in it." after a while mary mercer was taken back, and then we hear of singing on the water, especially after a trip to greenwich when returning by moonlight. the boy tom was usually of the party. of him pepys says (oct. , ), "my boy could not sleep, but wakes about four in the morning, and in bed laying playing on his lute till daylight, and it seems did the like last night, till twelve o'clock." and again, dec. , , "after supper i made the boy play upon his lute, and so, my mind is mighty content,--to bed." we do not in the least suppose that pepys' household was singular in the respect of having a succession of musical servants. all people in those times were musical--men, boys, women, and girls, of all classes and degrees. at the fire of london in , pepys, who was an eye-witness, tells us that the thames was full of lighters and boats taking in goods, and that he "observed that hardly one lighter or boat in three, that had the goods of a house, but there was a pair of virginals in it." how those old fellows loved and cared for their instruments! mace, a writer of , tells how a lute should be treated. "you shall do well," he writes, "even when you lay it by in the day-time, to put it into a bed that is constantly used, between the rug and the blanket, but never between the sheets, because they may be moist. there are great commodities (advantages) in so doing; it will save the strings from breaking; it will keep your lute in good order." he enumerates six conveniences of so doing. at that time a lute, a good one, cost about £ . so completely was it a matter of course to have music after supper, that cromwell, a lover of music, only altered the character of the performance. when the ambassadors of holland came to him, as lord protector, on the occasion of peace between the two commonwealths, after having entertained them at a repast, he and the "lady protectrice" led them into the music-hall, where they had a psalm sung. this was in . the dissolution of the cathedral choirs, the abolition of sacred music in the churches, scattered professional musicians over the country. there is a very curious traditional song relative to this change, sung in devonshire, and called _brixham town_. it relates how-- "in brixham town so rare for singing sweet and fair, with none that may compair." the instrumentalists and singers considered that they were the best anywhere. but-- "there came a man to our town, a man of office and in gown, strove to put music down, which most men do adore." then the story goes on to exhort him and all others who love not music-- "go search out holy writ, and you will find in it, that it is right and fit to praise the lord. on cymbal and with lute, on organ and with flute, and voices sweet that suit all in accord." very pointedly the song goes on to mention how an evil spirit haunted saul, and how it proved that this devil also hated music, and how that when david played on his harp the evil spirit fled. the song ends-- "so now, my friends, adieu; i hope that all of you will pull most just and true in serving the lord. god grant that all of we, like angels may agree, singing in harmony, and sweet concord." there was a great effort made at the time of the commonwealth to put down all kinds of music. in the provost-marshal was given power to arrest all ballad-singers. organs were everywhere destroyed, and probably a great many viols, lutes, and other instruments. one gentleman, when he adopted puritanism, had a deep hole dug in his garden, and buried in it "£ worth of music-books, six feet underground, being, as he said, love-songs and vanity." this was a considerable sum indeed for an amateur to have spent in books of vocal music only; and as he continued to play "psalms and religious hymns on the theorbo," it may be presumed that what was interred formed but a portion of his musical collection. the singers and instrumentalists dispersed by the orders of parliament were reduced to the greatest poverty, and went round the country taking up their abode in gentlemen's houses, where they were gladly given quarters, when these gentlemen could afford it; but as many were utterly impoverished, often the musicians frequented the ale-houses, and picked up a precarious subsistence from the tavern frequenters. this had one advantage, for it no doubt helped to educate the village people generally in music. but even thus they got into trouble, for oliver cromwell's third parliament passed an act ordering the arrest and punishment of all minstrels and musicians who performed in taverns. hitherto in country places the only instruments used had been rude, and the only music known was the ballad air, which also served as a dance-tune. hence most of our old dances are known by the names of the ballads to which they were sung. but the dispersion of the orchestras from cathedrals and theatres and large town churches throughout the country places not only brought in a new notion of music, the playing of concerted pieces, but also in a great many cases placed the costly instruments at the disposal of village musicians. the old instrumentalists were obliged to part with their lutes and theorbos, their viol de gambas and violins, at a low price; or dying in the villages where they had settled, they left their loved instruments to such men in the place as seemed likely to make good use of them. these old musicians in country places gathered men about them in their lodgings in the village ale-houses, and taught them a more artistic method of playing, and a higher class of music, and they really gave that impetus to orchestral church music which only died out--shall we not rather say was killed?--within the memory of man. the old village musician was a man remarkable in his way. one, david turton, of horbury, in yorkshire, was perhaps typical of the better class. a man of intense enthusiasm for his art, and passionate love of his viol; one may be quite sure that his viol shared his bed, taking it by day when turton was out of it, like box and cox. the story was told of him, that he was returning one night from a concert at wakefield, where he had been performing, when he passed through a field in which was a savage bull. the bull seeing him began to bellow, and run at him with lowered horns. "now then," said old david, "that note must be double b." he whipped the bass viol out of the green bag, set it down, and drew his bow over the strings, to try to hit the note bellowed. the bull, staggered at the response, stopped, threw up his head, and--turned tail. but there were musicians of a less dignified character, jolly, reckless, drinking dogs, who fiddled at every festive gathering till they could fiddle no more. they were invariably present at a wedding. in a popular song called _chummie's wedding_, it is said of the merry-makers-- "the fiddler did stop, and he struck up a hop, whilst seated on top of a trunk, but not one of the batch could come up to the scratch, they were all so outrageously drunk." very quaint old tunes were played; as the space for dancing in cottages was extremely limited, the performance was often confined to one couple, sometimes to a single performer--a man, who took off his shoes and went through really marvellous steps. the step-dance is now gone, or all but gone, but was at one time much cultivated among the peasantry of the west of england. much depended on the fiddler, who played fast or slow, and changed his air, the dancer altering his pace and step, and the whole character of his dance, to suit the music. the village clerk was generally the great musical authority in the parish; he led the orchestra in the church, and not unusually also played at merry-makings. it may be remembered that in _doctor syntax_ is a plate representing the parson in his black cocked hat and bushy wig performing on his violin to the rustics as they dance about the may-pole; and again, fiddling, he leads the harvest-home procession. such conduct would be regarded as highly indecorous now; but was there harm in it? was it not well that the parson should be associated with the merry-makings of his flock? that he should lead and direct their music? those old orchestras were, i fear, subject to outbreaks of discord, and that was one reason why they were displaced first by the barrel organ, then by the harmonium. well, but the solar envelope is always torn by tempests, and yet it diffuses a light in which we live and enjoy ourselves, regardless of these storms. the very necessity for living together in some sort of agreement, in order that they might be able to perform concerted pieces, was of educative advantage to the old musicians. it taught them to subdue their individuality to the common welfare. and so, not only because it gave more persons an interest in the conduct of divine worship than at present is the case, but also because the orchestra was a great educative school of self-control, its disappearance from every village is to be regretted. [illustration] [illustration: james olver. _from a photograph by_ hayman, launceston.] chapter xi. the village bard. [illustration] in the _vicar of wakefield_, the parsonage is visited periodically by a poor man of the name of burchell. "he was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. he was famous, i found, for singing them ballads and telling them stories.... he generally came for a few days into our neighbourhood once a year, and lived upon the neighbours' hospitality. he sat down to supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry wine. the tale went round; he sung us old songs, and gave the children the story of the buck of beverland, with the history of patient grizzel, the adventures of catskin, and then fair rosamund's bower." how completely the itinerant singer of ballads and teller of folk-tales has disappeared--driven from the houses of the gentle, because the young people have books now, and amuse themselves with them, and he lingers on only in the ale-houses; such men are few and far between, feeble old men, who can now hardly obtain a hearing for their quaint stories, and whose minor melodies are voted intolerable by young ears, disciplined only to appreciate music-hall inanities. there are still a few of these men about, and as i have taken a good deal of pains to get into their confidence, and collect from them the remains--there exist only remains--of their stories, musical and poetical, i am able to give an account of them which ought to interest, for the old village bard or song-man is rapidly becoming as extinct as the dodo and the great auk. the village bard or song-man is the descendant of the minstrel. now the minstrels were put down by act of parliament in , and were to be dealt with by the magistrates with severity as rogues and vagabonds. that sealed the doom of the old ballad. all such as were produced later are tame and flat in comparison with the genuine songs of the old times, and can at best be regarded only as modern imitations. the press has preserved in broadsides a good number of ballads, and _the complete dancing master_ and other collections have saved a good number of the old tunes from being irrevocably lost. but by no means all were thus preserved; a great many more continued to be sung by our peasantry, and i quite believe the old men when they say, that at one time they knew some one hundred and fifty to two hundred distinct songs and melodies; their memories were really extraordinary. but then they could neither read nor write, and the faculty of remembering was developed in them to a remarkable extent. i have heard of two of these men meeting to sing against each other for a wager. they began at sunset; one started a ballad, sang it through, then his opponent sang one, and so on. the object was to ascertain which knew most. the sun rose on them, and neither had come to an end of his store, so the stakes were drawn. these old minstrels all are in the same tale, when asked to sing, "lord, your honour, i haven't a sung these thirty year. volks now don't care to hear my songs. most on 'em be gone right out o' my head." yet a good many come back; and i find that when i read over the first verse or two of a series of ballads in any collection, that the majority are either known to them, or suggest to them another, or a variant. it is not ballads only that are stored in their memories--many ballads that go back for their origin to before the reign of henry vii., but also songs that breathe the atmosphere of the time of elizabeth. mr. r. bell, in his introduction to his _songs from the dramatists_, says, "the superiority in all qualities of sweetness, thoughtfulness, and purity of the writers of the sixteenth century over their successors is strikingly exhibited in these productions. "the songs of the age of elizabeth and james i. are distinguished as much by their delicacy and chastity of feeling, as by their vigour and beauty. the change that took place under charles ii. was sudden and complete. with the restoration love disappears, and sensuousness takes its place. voluptuous without taste or sentiment, the songs of that period may be said to dissect in broad daylight the life of the town, laying bare with revolting shamelessness the tissues of its most secret vices. but as this morbid anatomy required some variation to relieve its sameness, the song sometimes transported the libertinism into the country, and through the medium of a sort of covent garden pastoral exhibited the fashionable delinquencies in a masquerade of strephons and chlorises, no better than the courtalls and loveits of the comedies. the costume of innocence gave increased zest to the dissolute wit, and the audiences seem to have been delighted with the representation of their own licentiousness in the transparent disguise of verdant images, and the affectation of rural simplicity." very few of the songs of the restoration have lingered on in the memory of our minstrels, if ever they were taken into their store. many of the songs of that period were set to tunes that have passed on from generation to generation, up to the present age, when they are all being neglected for wretched, vulgar songs, without fun and without melody. the ballad especially is death-smitten. folks nowadays lack patience, and will not endure a song that is not finished in three minutes. the old ballad was a folk-tale run into jingling rhyme, and sung to a traditional air; it is often very long. one i have recovered, _the gipsy countess_, runs through over twenty verses. the very popular _saddle to rags_ runs through some twenty-two, _lord bateman_ has about fifty, and _arthur of bradley_ has hardly any end to it. a ballad cannot be pared down greatly, as that destroys the story, which is set to verse to be told leisurely, with great variety of expression. in the percy society issued to its members a volume entitled _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_, edited by mr. j. h. dixon, who gives in his preface the following account of the sources whence he collected them:--"he who, in travelling through the rural districts of england, has made the roadside inn his resting-place, who has visited the lowly dwellings of the villagers and yeomanry, and been present at their feasts and festivals, must have observed that there are certain old poems, ballads, and songs which are favourites with the masses, and have been said and sung from generation to generation." when i was a boy i was wont to ride about my native county, putting up at little village inns for the night, and there i often came in for gatherings where the local song-man entertained the company. unfortunately i did not make any collection at the time, though snatches of the songs and wafts of the strains lingered in my head. i dare say that there are still singers of ballads in other parts of england, but my researches have been confined to the west. somerset had its own type of songs with peculiar cadences, and devon and cornwall were rich to overflow in melodies. wherever i go in quest of a song-man, i hear the same story, "ah! there was old so-and-so, eighty years of age, died last winter of bronchitis, _he_ was a singer and no mistake." they have been struck down, those old men, and therefore we must prize the more those that are left. anciently--well, not so very anciently either, for it was within my memory--almost every parish had its bard, a man generally the descendant of a still more famous father, who was himself but the legatee of a race of song-men. this village bard had his memory stored with traditional melodies and songs and ballads, committed to him as a valuable deposit by his father, wedded to well-known ancient airs, and the country singer not only turned from the affectation of the new melodies, but with jealous tenacity clung to the familiar words. words became so wedded to airs that the minstrels, and their hearers and imitators, could not endure to have them dissociated. i had an instance of this three winters ago, when, at a village concert, i sang an old ballad, _the sun was set behind the hill_, set by a friend to a melody he had composed for it. a very old labourer who was present began to grumble. "he's gotten the words right, but he's not got the right tune. he should zing 'un right or not at all," and he got up and left the room in disdain. the village minstrel did certainly compose some of the melodies he sang, generally to a new ballad, or song that was acquired from a broadside, or to one he had himself made. this the old men have distinctly assured me of. they did not all, or a large number of them did not, pretend to the faculty of musical composition, but they have named to me men so gifted, and have told me of melodies they composed. there was, and is, a blacksmith in a remote village in devon, who is reported to be able to play any musical instrument put into his hands, at all events after a little trial of its peculiarities. he is said to be able to set any copy of verses offered him to original melodies. davey, the writer of _will watch_, and other pleasant songs of the dibdin period and character, was a devonshire blacksmith. but, as already hinted, these men also composed verses. there was such an one, a village poet in the parish where i lived as a child. his story was curious. he had bought his wife in okehampton market for half-a-crown. her husband, weary of her temper and tongue, brought her to the "gigglet" fair with a rope round her neck, and the minstrel had the hardihood to buy her. i know that it has often been charged by foreigners on english people that they sell their wives thus, but this was a fact. the woman was so sold, and so bought; the buyer and seller quite believed that the transaction was legal. she lived with the purchaser till her death, and a very clean, decent, hard-working woman she was. she had, indeed, a tongue; but when she began to let it wag, then the minstrel clapped his hands to his ears, ran out of the house, and betook himself to the ale-house, where he was always welcome, and from which he did not himself return, but was conveyed home--in a wheel-barrow. this man regarded himself as the poet of the place, and nothing of importance took place in my grandfather's family without his coming to the house to sing a copy of verses he had composed on the occasion. many a good laugh was had over his verses, which, like those of orlando, "had in them more feet than the verses would bear; and the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves without the verse." there was one, made on the occasion of some new arrangement with the farmers relative to the game entered into by my father, and which gave general satisfaction, of which each stanza ended with the refrain-- "for he had, he had, he had, he had, o he had a most expansive mind." the reader will conclude that the world has not lost much in that jim's poems have not been preserved. one very odd feature, by the way, of these singers is the manner in which they manufacture syllables where the verse halts. thus when "gold-en" comes in place of two trochees, they convert it into "guddle-old-en"; even, when the line is still more halting, into "gud-dle-udd-le-old-en." in like manner "soul" or "tree" is turned into "suddle-ole" or "tur-rur-ree." there was another village poet who flourished in the same epoch as the jim cited above. his name was rab downe. he had a remarkable facility for running off impromptu verses. on one occasion at a wrestling match, he began swinging himself from foot to foot, and to a chant--these fellows always sing their verses--described the match as it went on before him, versifying all the turns and incidents of the struggle, throwing in words relative to the onlookers, their names and complementary expletives. no doubt that much of the compositions of these men was mere doggerel, but it was not always so. in their songs gleam out here and there a poetic, or, at all events, a fresh and quaint thought. what is always difficult to ascertain is what is original and what traditional, for when they do pretend to originality they often import into their verses whole passages from ancient ballads. but in this they are not peculiar. hindley in his _life of james catnach_, the broadside publisher, gives some verses on the death of the princess charlotte, which catnach claimed as his own composition. the first verse runs-- "she is gone! sweet charlotte's gone, gone to the silent bourne; she is gone, she's gone for ever more,-- she never can return." but this was a mere adaptation of a song of _the drowned lover_, which is a favourite with the old singers-- "he is gone! my love is drowned! my love whom i deplore. he is gone! he's gone! i never, no i never shall see him more." catnach corruscated into brilliant originality in the next stanza-- "she is gone with her joy--her darling boy, the son of leopold, blythe and keen; she died the sixth of november, eighteen hundred and seventeen." there is nothing like this in the original _drowned lover_ that influenced the opening of his elegy. "catnach," says mr. hindley--the italics are his own--"_made_ the following lines _out of his own head_!" our village bards never reached a lower bathos. the reader may perhaps like to hear the story of the lives of some of these old fellows. one, james parsons, a very infirm man, over seventy, asthmatic and failing, has been a labourer all his life, and for the greater part of it on one farm. his father was famed through the whole country side as "the singing machine," he was considered to be inexhaustible. alas! he is no more, and his old son shakes his head and professes to have but half the ability, memory, and musical faculty that were possessed by his father. he can neither read nor write. from him i have obtained some of the earliest melodies and most archaic forms of ballads. indeed the majority of his airs are in the old church modes, and generally end on the dominant. at one time his master sent him to lydford on the edge of dartmoor, to look after a farm he had bought. whilst there, parsons went every pay-day to a little moorland tavern, where the miners met to drink, and there he invariably got his "entertainment" for his singing. "i'd been zinging there," said he, "one evening till i got a bit fresh, and i thought 'twere time for me to be off. so i stood up to go, and then one chap, he said to me, 'got to the end o' your zongs, old man?' 'not i,' said i, 'not by a long ways; but i reckon it be time for me to be going.' 'looky here, jim,' said he. 'i'll give you a quart of ale for every fresh song you sing us to-night.' well, your honour, i sat down again, and i zinged on--i zinged sixteen fresh songs, and that chap had to pay for sixteen quarts." "pints, surely," i said. "no, zur!" bridling up. "no, zur--not pints, good english quarts. and then--i hadn't come to the end o' my zongs, only i were that fuddled, i couldn't remember no more." "sixteen quarts between feeling fresh and getting fuddled!" "sixteen. ask voysey; he paid for'n." now this voysey is a man working for me, so i did ask him. he laughed and said, "sure enough, i had to pay for sixteen quarts that evening." another of my old singers is james olver, a fine, hale old man, with a face fresh as a rose, and silver hair, a grand old patriarchal man, who has been all his life a tanner. he is a cornishman, a native of st. kewe. his father was musical, but a methodist, and so strict that he would never allow his children to sing a ballad or any profane song in his hearing, and fondly fancied that they grew up in ignorance of such things. but the very fact that they were tabooed gave young olver and his sister a great thirst to learn, digest, and sing them. he acquired them from itinerant ballad-singers, from miners, and from the village song-men. olver was apprenticed to a tanner at liskeard. "tell'y," said he, "at liskeard, sixty years ago, all the youngsters on summer evenings used to meet in a field outside the town called _gurt lane_, and the ground were strewed wi' tan, and there every evening us had wrastling (wrestling), and single-stick, and boxing. look'y here,"--he put his white head near me and raised the hair,--"do'y see now how my head be a cut about? and look to my forehead and cheek as was cut open wi' single-stick. i wor a famous player in them days; and the gentlefolks and ladies 'ud come out and see us at our sports, just as they goes now to cricket-matches." whilst the games went on, or between the intervals, songs were sung. "i'll sing'y one," said olver, "was a favourite, and were sung to encourage the youngsters." . "i sing of champions bold, that wrestled--not for gold; and all the cry was 'will trefry,' that he would win the day. so will trefry, huzzah! the ladies clap their hands and cry, 'trefry! trefry! huzzah!' . then up sprang little jan, a lad scarce grown a man. he said, 'trefry, i wot i'll try a hitch with you this day.' so little jan, huzzah! the ladies clap their hands and cry, 'o little jan, huzzah!' . he stript him to the waist, he boldly trefry faced; 'i'll let him know that i can throw as well as he to-day.' so little jan, huzzah! and some said so; but others,'no, trefry! trefry! huzzah!' . they wrestled on the ground, his match trefry had found; and back he bore in struggle sore, and felt his force give way. so little jan, huzzah! so some did say; but others, 'nay, trefry! trefry! huzzah!' . then with a desperate toss, will showed the flying hoss,[ ] and little jan fell on the tan, and never more he spake. o! little jan, alack! the ladies say, 'oh, woe's the day! o! little jan, alack!' . now little jan, i ween, that day had married been; had he not died, a gentle bride that day he home had led. the ladies sigh--the ladies cry, 'o! little jan is dead.'" at halwell, in north devon, lives a fine old man named roger luxton, aged seventy-six, a great-grandfather, with bright eyes and an intelligent face. he stays about among his grandchildren, but is usually found at the picturesque farm-house of a daughter at halwell, called croft. this old man was once very famous as a song-man, but his memory fails him as to a good number of the ballads he was wont to sing. "ah, your honour," said he, "in old times us used to be welcome in every farm-house, at all shearing and haysel and harvest feasts; but, bless'y! now the farmers' da'ters all learn the pianny, and zing nort but twittery sort of pieces that have nother music nor sense in them; and they don't care to hear us, and any decent sort of music. and there be now no more shearing and haysel and harvest feasts. all them things be given up. 'tain't the same world as used to be--'taint so cheerful. folks don't zing over their work, and laugh after it. there be no dances for the youngsters as there used to was. the farmers be too grand to care to talk to us old chaps, and for certain don't care to hear us zing. why for nigh on forty years us old zinging-fellows have been drove to the public-houses to zing, and to a different quality of hearers too. and now i reckon the labouring folk be so tree-mendious edicated that they don't care to hear our old songs nother. 'tis all _pop goes the weasel_ and _ehren on the rhine_ now. i reckon folks now have got different ears from what they used to have, and different hearts too. more's the pity." in the very heart of dartmoor lives a very aged blind man, by name jonas coaker, himself a poet, after an illiterate fashion. he is only able to leave his bed for a few hours in the day. he has a retentive memory, and recalls many very old ballads. from being blind he is thrown in on himself, and works on his memory till he digs out some of the old treasures buried there long ago. unhappily his voice is completely gone, so that melodies cannot be recovered through him. there is a cornishman whose name i will give as elias keate--a pseudonym--a thatcher, a very fine, big-built, florid man, with big, sturdy sons. this man goes round to all sheep-shearings, harvest homes, fairs, etc., and sings. he has a round, rich voice, a splendid pair of bellows; but he has an infirmity, he is liable to become the worse for the liquor he freely imbibes, and to be quarrelsome over his cups. he belongs to a family of hereditary singers and drinkers. in his possession is a pewter spirit-bottle--a pint bottle--that belonged to his great-grandfather in the latter part of the last century. that old fellow used to drink his pint of raw spirit every day; so did the grandfather of elias; so did the father of elias; so would elias--if he had it; but so do not his sons, for they are teetotalers. another minstrel is a little blacksmith; he is a younger man than the others, but he is, to me, a valuable man. he was one of fourteen children, and so his mother sent him, when he was four years old, to his grandmother, and he remained with his grandmother till he was ten. from his grandmother he acquired a considerable number of old dames' songs and ballads. his father was a singer; he had inherited both the hereditary faculty and the stock-in-trade. thus my little blacksmith learned a whole series which were different from those acquired from the grandmother. at the age of sixteen he left home, finding he was a burden, and since that age has shifted for himself. this man tells me that he can generally pick up a melody and retain it, if he has heard it sung once; that of a song twice sung, he knows words and music, and rarely, if ever, requires to have it sung a third time to perfect him. [illustration: john helmore.] [illustration: richard hard.] on the south of dartmoor live two men also remarkable in their way--richard hard and john helmore. the latter is an old miller, with a fine intelligent face and a retentive memory. he can read, and his songs have to be accepted with caution. some are very old, others have been picked up from song-books. hard is a poor cripple, walking only with the aid of two sticks, with sharply-chiselled features,--he must have been a handsome man in his youth,--bright eyes, a gentle, courteous manner, and a marvellous store of old words and tunes in his head. he is now past stone-breaking on the roadside, and lives on £ per annum. he has a charming old wife; and he and the old woman sing together in parts their quaint ancient ballads. that man has yielded up something like eighty distinct melodies. his memory, however, is failing; for when the first lines of a ballad in some published collection is read to him, he will sometimes say, "i did know that some forty years ago, but i can't sing it through now." however, he can very generally "put the tune to it." the days of these old singers is over. what festive gatherings there are now are altered in character. the harvest home is no more. we have instead harvest festivals, tea and cake at sixpence a head in the school-room, and a choral service and a sermon in the church. village weddings are now quiet enough, no feasting, no dancing. there are no more shearing feasts; what remain are shorn of all their festive character. instead, we have cottage garden produce shows. the old village "revels" linger on in the most emaciated and expiring semblance of the old feast. the old ballad-seller no more appears in the fair. i wrote to a famous broadside house in the west the other day, to ask if they still produced sheet-ballads, and the answer was, "we abandoned that line thirty years ago;" and no one else took it up. "i love a ballad but even too well," says the clown in _winter's tale_, and "i love a ballad in print, a'-life!" sighs mopsa; but there are no clowns and mopsas now. clever board school scholars and misses who despise ballads, and love dear as life your coarse, vulgar, music-hall buffoonery. [ ]"i reckon the days is departed when folks 'ud 'a listened to me; i feels like as one broken-hearted, a thinking of what used to be. and i dun' know as much is amended than was in them merry old times, when, wi' pipes and good ale, folks attended to me and my purty old rhymes. to me and my purty old rhymes. 'tes true, i be cruel asthmatic, i've lost ivry tooth i' my head, and my limbs be crim'd up wi' rheumatic-- d'rsay i were better in bed. but lor'! wi' that dratted blue ribbon, tay-totals and chapels--the lot! a leckturing, canting and fibbin', the old zinging man is forgot. the old zinging man is forgot. i reckon, that wi' my brown fiddle, i'd go from this cottage to that, all the youngsters 'ud dance in the middle, their pulses and feet pit-a-pat. i cu'd zing--if you'd stand me the liquor, all night, and 'ud never give o'er; my voice--i don't deny't getting thicker, but never exhausting my store. but never exhausting my store. 'tes politics now is the fashion, as sets folks about by the ear, and slops makes the poorest o' lushing, no zinging for _me_ wi'out beer. i reckon the days be departed for such jolly gaffers as i; folks will never again be light-hearted, as they was in the days that's gone by. as they was in the days that's gone by. o lor! what wi' their edi'cation, and me--neither cipher nor write; but in zinging the best in the nation, and give the whole parish delight. i be going, i reckon, full mellow, to lay in the churchyard my head; so say--god be wi' you, old fellow! the last o' the singers is dead. the last o' the singers is dead." [illustration] footnotes: [ ] the flying horse is a peculiarly dangerous throw over the head, and usually breaks or severely injures the spine of the wrestler thus thrown. [ ] from _songs of the west_, by s. baring gould and h. fleetwood sheppard. methuen & co.: . chapter xii. old servants. [illustration] when _doomsday book_ was drawn up, there was but one female domestic servant in the county of devon, that covers one million six hundred and fifty-five thousand acres. when i mentioned that fact to a lady of my acquaintance, she heaved a deep-drawn sigh, and said, "i wish i had lived in the times of _doomsday_, and had not been the mistress of that one servant-maid." [illustration: the old butler.] i believe that, were we lords of creation to have earlet holes communicating with our lady's bowers, as in the middle ages the ladies of creation had openings into their lords' halls, we would hear that much of their conversation turned on the restlessness and misdemeanours of their female servants. i do not mean for a moment to deny or excuse these defects, but to explain the cause of the restlessness complained of. polly is out of a situation, she can neither boil a potato properly nor cook a mutton-chop. she advertises in the local paper for a situation as cook, from her parents' cottage, where the whole family pig in one room. the post arrives next morning with forty or fifty answers from ladies asking, pleading for her services. half an hour later up drives a squire's carriage with coach and footman on the box, then the humble pony carriage of the rector, next the jingle of a maiden lady who lives two miles off. all day long carriages of every description are staying at the door, and ladies are visiting, entreating for the services of polly. polly spreads the forty or fifty letters she has received on the table. . "is there a kitchen-maid kept?" "no." "then i won't go to you." . "what wages?" "twenty pounds." "i take nothing under twenty-eight, and all found." . "any men-servants?" "a butler." "married or single?" "married--wife lives out." "i can go nowhere where there are not one or two unmarried and agreeable footmen." . "you want a character, ma'am? very sorry--if you doubts my respectability we shan't agree." . "how many in family?" "thirteen." "no good. i go nowhere but to a single gentleman who waits on himself, and cooks his own dinner." . "church or chapel, ma'am, did you ask? i keeps my religious opinions to myself, and won't be dictated to. no female jesuits for me." . "early riser? no, ma'am, i am not an early riser, and don't intend to demean myself by being such. i expecks a cup o' tea and a slice of bread and butter brought me in bed by the kitchen-maid afore i gets up." . "do i know how to cook _entrées_? there's nothink i can't do; i can do better than a thousand perfessionals." . "don't allow but alternate sunday evenings out? i expecks to have wot evenings out i likes." . "object to waste, do you, ma'am. very sorry, you must go elsewhere. i wastes on principle. i wouldn't be so unladylike as to save what belongs to others. chuck away what i can't use is my scripture, praises be." now is it to be wondered at that with such a crowd of applicants polly's head should be turned, and that she should think herself the greatest person in the world, so that she will not stay in any place where she has not everything her own way? anciently but few people kept servants, and the servants they kept were to a large extent drawn from their own class, were often their own relatives. pepys took his own sister to be servant in his house. , nov. . "my father and i discoursed seriously about my sister coming to live with me, and yet i am much afraid of her ill-nature. i told her plainly my mind was to have her come, not as a sister but as a servant, which she promised me she could, and with many thanks did weep for joy." - , jan. . "home to dinner, where i found pal (my sister) was come; but i do not let her sit down at the table with me, which i do at first that she may not expect it hereafter from me." sister paulina's temper proved unendurable. on november , , pepys writes--"by my wife's appointment came two young ladies, sisters, acquaintances of my wife's brothers, who are desirous to wait upon some ladies, and who proffer their services to my wife. the youngest hath a good voice, and sings very well, besides other good qualitys, but i fear hath been bred up with too great libertys for my family, and i fear greater inconveniences of expenses--though i confess the gentlewoman being pretty handsome and singing, makes me have a good mind to her." this girl, the younger gosnell, was engaged. on the nd he writes, "this day i bought the book of country dances against my wife's woman gosnell comes, who dances finely." on november . "my wife and i in discourse do pleasantly call gosnell over marmotte." on january , - . "my wife did propound my having of my sister pal again to be her woman, since one we must have."--gosnell had been required to attend on her uncle, a justice.--"it being a great trouble to me that i should have a sister of so ill a nature, that i must be forced to spend money upon a stranger, when it might better be upon her if she were good for anything." here are a couple of entries that came close together in the register of ottery st. mary concerning marriages-- " , september . george trobridge, gentleman, servant unto john vaughan, esq., married elizabeth, daughter of nicolas hancock." " , april . jonathan browne, of bridport, gent, and margaret harris, servant to richard arundell, gent." that margaret harris was a gentlewoman admits of little doubt. in the register of woolbrough i remember seeing that the yarde family of bradley had a cousin or two of the same name in service in their house. the usual term for a valet to a man of estate was--his gentleman, and a lady's maid-servant was--her gentlewoman. the apostle commands, "by love serve one another," and our forefathers do not seem at one time to have thought that domestic service was derogatory to gentility; and i do not myself see how that any one who considers that his supreme master and lord humbled himself, and took upon him the form of a servant, and stooped to wash his disciples feet, can sneer at _menial_ service. nothing is menial but what is done in a base, cantankerous, unloving spirit. it is usually found that such domestics as come out of the lowest slums are they who are most particular not to do anything that is not precisely their work, who are most choice and most exacting. when the relatives of the family ceased to be servants in the house, then came in the daughters of farmers, the cleanest, most thrifty, obliging, sensible, and altogether admirable domestics that ever were. who that is over fifty does not remember them? they were conscientious, they took an interest in the family, their mistresses liked--even loved them. then the farmers became too grand in their ideas to send out their girls into service, and consequently one class alone was drained of its young women, the labourer class, the uneducated, undisciplined, the class that had no idea of thrift; and is it to be wondered at that the girls' heads should be turned when they find in what demand they were? i do not mean to say that, taken as a whole, a more respectable, nice, honest, cleanly set of girls is anywhere to be found than our english serving lasses; but we live in an age of transition--they who were formerly only required as drudges in farm-houses, suddenly discover themselves in huge request, and that has upset them. the trouble there is in households now about domestic servants is said by some to be due to the mistresses--they do not make friends of their slavies, as did the ancient mistresses of theirs. but how can they, when the girl does not stay in the house over three months or half a year, and when she belongs to a class intellectually, socially, educationally removed from her mistress by a great cultural gulf as wide as that which separated lazarus from dives? there are few more charming figures in fiction and in retrospect than the "old blue-coated serving-man," devoted to his master's interests, and living and dying in his service; but i doubt whether he deserved the halo with which he has been invested. he was a bit of an imposture. devoted he was to his master's interests, because he lived on his master, and just on the same principle as any parasite desires the welfare, the fatness, and full-bloodedness of the mammal on which it is itself battening. a french cynic in his will bequeathed to his valet "all that of which he has robbed me." there have been old and faithful servants, but that there were many of them unselfseeking i do not believe; and i remember a very considerable number of them who became intolerable nuisances--exacting, despotic, believing that the family on which they depended could not get on without them, as the fly said of itself when it sat on the coach, "how i am getting the carriage along!" i also know that a good many have carried on gross depredations on their masters for many years unsuspected and undetected, all the while believed to have but one object of love and care in the world--the master and his house. if we were to make a graduated scale of servants, according to their merits and demerits, i should put the butler at one end and the coachman at the other; in the former the imposition reaches its maximum, and the minimum is in the coachman, or, to put it the other way, i think that the dear old coachman is the most genuine, true-hearted, and deepest imbued with love of his master and the family, and that there is the least of this unselfish love in the butler. very ungrateful and unjust would i be were i not to acknowledge the excellence in the old coachman, for have i not one of my own, now indeed for his age dethroned from his box but not from my service, who carried me in his arms to the hayfield when i was a little fellow, hardly able to toddle, and who now loves above everything to take my youngest into the stables, and perch the little fellow on the back of one of the carriage horses. a worthy old servant, who had been with my grandfather, then my father, then with me, and--who knows? for he is green still--may serve my son. the old notion was, that a servant was engaged for a year, and that a servant could not leave, nor a master discharge a servant, under a quarter's notice. the servants within a house were recognized by law as _menials_, from the latin _intra menia_, within walls. as late as last century, all single men between twelve years old and sixty, and married ones under thirty years of age, and all single women between twelve and forty, not having any visible livelihood, were compellable by two justices to go into service of some sort. the _apprentice_, from the french _apprendre_, to learn, was usually bound for a term of years, by indenture, to serve the master, and be maintained and instructed by him. landowners and farmers had their apprentices as well as their menials. orphan children were apprenticed by the parish, and an almost filial relation and affection grew up between master and mistress and their apprentices. this was specially noticeable among farm-servants. i knew an old man who had been apprenticed to my great-great-grandmother, that died at the end of last century, and he always spoke of her with the tenderest respect, and was proud to the last hour of his life that he had been apprenticed to the old madame. the farm-servants and the inferior servants to the gentry were hired at certain fairs, generally at martinmas; in the west of england these are called _giglet_ fairs, but they exist in yorkshire, and indeed in many other parts of england. the word giglet means a girl. the girls and young men were wont to stand in rows in the market-place, to be looked at and selected. they wore ribands according to the sort of service they desired to enter upon. a carter carried in his hat a tuft of white ribands, a cook wore a red riband, and a housemaid a bunch of blue. the giglet fairs continue, and are attended by all the labouring population of the country side, especially by the young of both sexes, but there is very little hiring now done at them. one of the most perplexing facts to the student of genealogy, in making out the pedigree of an important family from registers of births, deaths, and marriages in a parish, is that wherever a great family was seated, there are found also a shoal of individuals, distinctly of an inferior social class, bearing the same patronymic. that these were no blood relatives is almost certain, for they are not mentioned in the wills of those belonging to the aristocratic family; and we find no evidence in registers or elsewhere of any family relation. it has often been conjectured, that these individuals and families did really derive from the main aristocratic stem, perhaps not legitimately but left-handedly. but the evidence for this is wanting--it may be forthcoming here and there in individual cases, but there is no proof that this was generally so. to this day we find among the labourers names of historical and great landed families, and we are disposed to think that these are actual lineal offshoots from such families, and sometimes fancy we trace a certain dignity of bearing and aristocratic cast in their features. but i believe that these humble courtenays, cliffords, veres, devereux, &c., have not a drop of the blood in their veins belonging to these great families, that, in fact, they are descendants of menial servants, who were once in the castle or manor-house of these barons and knights and squires, and that they ate their beef and drank their ale, but drew no blood from their veins. in the fifteenth century surnames were by no means general, and even in the sixteenth were not of general adoption. to this day in the western hills of yorkshire, separating that county from lancashire, persons are known by their pedigrees, and very often their surnames are generally unknown. tom is not tom greenwood, but tom o' jakes, that is, tom the son of jack; and if there be two toms in a parish both sons of jack, then one is distinguished from the other by carrying the pedigree further back a stage. one is tom o' jakes o' will's, and the other is tom o' jakes o' harry's. in early parish registers such an entry as this may occur-- " , july. buried, william, servant to arthur carew, esq., commonly called william carew." later than that--in - --pepys enters on feb. , "my boy wareman (his servant lad) hath all this day been called young pepys, as sir w. pen's boy (servant) is young pen." at the end of last century and the beginning of this it was a common custom for servant men to assume the titles of their masters, and to address each other under their master's names. this was not an affectation, it was a survival of the old custom of every servant taking his master's surname, as he wore his livery. in _high life below stairs_ we have this scene-- "the park. _duke's servant._ what wretches are ordinary servants, that go on in the same vulgar track every day! eating, working, and sleeping!--but we, who have the honour to serve the nobility, are of another species. we are above the common forms, have servants to wait upon us, and are as lazy and luxurious as our masters. ha!--my dear sir harry-- (_enter_ sir harry's servant.) how have you done these thousand years? _sir h.'s serv._ my lord duke!--your grace's most obedient servant! _duke's serv._ well, baronet, and where have you been? _sir h.'s serv._ at newmarket, my lord.--we have had dev'lish fine sport. _after a while they retire, then enter_ lady bab's maid _and_ lady charlotte's maid. _lady b.'s maid._ o fie, lady charlotte! you are quite indelicate. i am sorry for your taste. _lady c.'s maid._ well, i say it again, i love vauxhall." the _spectator_ (june th, ) says, "falling in the other day at a victualling-house near the house of peers, i heard the maid come down and tell the landlady at the bar, that my lord bishop swore he would throw her out at window, if she did not bring up more mild beer, and that my lord duke would have a double mug of purle. my surprize was encreased, in hearing loud and rustick voices speak and answer to each other upon the publick affairs, by the names of the most illustrious of our nobility; till of a sudden one came running in, and cry'd the house was rising. down came all the company together, and away! the alehouse was immediately filled with clamour, and scoring one mug to the marquis of such a place, oyl and vinegar to such an earl, three quarts to my new lord for wetting his title, and so forth.... it is a common humour among the retinue of people of quality, when they are in their revels, ... to assume in a humorous way the names and titles of those whose liveries they wear." what was done in a "humorous way" in the days of addison, was a relic of what was actually done in sober seriousness a couple of centuries earlier, when surnames were possessed by the few only, and these men of consequence. does the reader remember the charming account of the servants in the household of sir roger de coverly? "there is one particular which i have seldom seen but at sir roger's; it is usual in all other places, that servants fly from the parts of the house through which their master is passing; on the contrary, here they industriously place themselves in his way; and it is on both sides, as it were, understood as a visit, when the servants appear without calling.... thus respect and love go together; and a certain chearfulness in performance of their duty is the particular distinction of the lower part of his family. when a servant is called before his master, he does not come with an expectation to hear himself rated for some trivial fault, threatned to be stripped, or used with any other unbecoming language, which mean masters often give to worthy servants; but it is often to know, what road he took that he came so readily back according to order; whether he passed by such a ground; if the old man who rents it is in good health: or whether he gave sir roger's love to him, or the like. "a man who preserves a respect, founded on his benevolence to his dependants, lives rather like a prince than a master in his family; his orders are received as favours, rather than duties; and the distinction of approaching him is part of the reward for executing what is commanded by him." it is singular to see how small the wages paid were formerly for domestics, and what a leap up they have made of late, synchronous with deterioration of quality and character. for a farmer's daughter £ was a high wage, and now £ is sniffed at by a ploughman's wench. pepys took a cook from the house of his grace the duke of albemarle, and paid her £ per annum, and complains at the wage. he says he never before did spend so big a sum on a wage. she must have been an energetic and active woman, for here is the _menu_ of a dinner she cooked. "we had a fricasee of rabbits and chickens, a leg of mutton boiled, three carps in a dish, a great dish of a side of lamb, a dish of roasted pigeons, a dish of four lobsters, three tarts, a lamprey pie, a most rare pie, a dish of anchovies, good wine of several sorts--most neatly dressed by our own only mayde." how did she manage it without a kitchen range with hot plates? the account-book of mrs. joyce jefferies, a lady resident in herefordshire and worcestershire during the civil war, comprises the receipt and expenditure of nine years. she lived a single person in her house in hereford, and by no means on a contracted scale. many female servants are mentioned, two having wages from £ to £ _s._ per annum, with gowns of dark stuff at midsummer. her coachman, receiving _s._ per annum, had at whitsuntide, , a new cloth suit and cloak; and when he was dressed in his best, wore fine blue silk ribbon at the knees of his hose. the liveries of this and another man-servant were, in , of green spanish cloth, and cost upwards of nine pounds. her steward received a salary of £ _s._, and she kept for him a horse, which he rode to collect her rents and dues, and to see to the management of her estate. i have myself a book of accounts, a little later, where the "mayde of my wyfe" gets £ , and the footman £ and his livery. in some houses a whole series of account-books has been preserved, showing, among other things, the rise in wages paid for servants, and very instructive they are. here is from an account-book of , in a country squire's house. wages were paid on lady day for the whole year, and not quarterly. . £ _s._ _d._ sarah's wages old becky's anne, half-year nanny cook gardener bray the waggoner a certain betty had for wages and bill in an account-book for the wages are a little higher-- £ _s._ _d._ footman coachman cook housemaid scullery-maid the boy there died only a year ago an old woman who had been a servant since she was eighteen in two of the greatest houses in the neighbourhood. when she first went into service, she told me, it was at k--. she received £ as her wage, and managed to save money on that. she was, however, given a washing-dress by her mistress at lady day. after some years she went to l-- park, where she received £ . this was after a while raised to £ , and she invariably put away some of her wage. when after tried service her wage was raised to £ , the climax of her ambition was reached, she regarded herself as passing rich, and never hoped to obtain more. "for certain, sir," she said, "my work wasn't worth more." in my own parish churchyard, one of the best of the monuments is that raised by my grandfather to the memory of an old servant of his grandmother's. mr. thomas hilsden, who died feb. , , aged , having lived in the family of mrs. margaret gould, of lew house, years. this stone was erected in consideration of his faithful service. there is an ancient family i know of historic dignity. it has lost its ancestral estates, lost almost all of its family portraits; but one great picture remains to it, so poorly painted, that at the sale of the manor-house and its contents no one would buy it,--it is the portrait of an old servant, a giant, a tall and powerful ranger, who, partly for his size, chiefly for his fidelity, was painted and hung up in the hall along with the knights and squires and ladies of the family which he had served so well. the mention of this picture leads me to say a few words about a worthy man who died some twenty years ago. rawle was hind to the late sir thomas acland of killerton. sir thomas introduced arab blood among the exmoor ponies, and greatly improved the breed. about he appointed rawle in charge of these ponies. he was a fine man, fully six feet high, and big in proportion. his power of breaking in the ponies was extraordinary. he was quite indifferent to falls, often pony and man rolling over and over each other. the sale of the ponies generally took place at bampton and at taunton fairs. the system was this--a herd of the wild little creatures was driven into the fair. buyers attended from all parts of the country, and when a dealer took a fancy to a pony, he pointed him out to the moor-man in attendance, who went into the herd, seized upon the selected one, and brought him out by sheer strength. this is no easy matter, for the exmoor pony fights with his fore-feet in desperate fashion. it usually took, and takes, two men to do this, but rawle did not require assistance, such was his strength. indeed so strong was rawle, that he would put a hand under the feet of a maid-servant on each side of him, and raise himself and at the same time both of them, till he was upright, and he held each woman on the palm of his hand, one on each side of him, level with his waist. sir thomas acland was wont, when he had friends with him, to get the man to make this exhibition of his strength before them. sir thomas had a hunting box at higher combe (called in the district yarcombe); he occupied one portion of the house when there, a farmer occupied the rest. it was a curious scene--a remnant of feudal times--when sir thomas came there. his tenants, summoned for the purpose, had accompanied him in a cavalcade from winsford, or hornicott. john rawle could never be persuaded to eat a bite or take a draught when his master was in a house; he planted himself as a sentry upright before the door when sir thomas went in to refresh himself anywhere, and nothing could withdraw him from his post. in connexion with these expeditions to higher combe, it may be added that the cavalcade of tenants would attend sir thomas to the wood where a stag had been harboured. among them was a band, each member of the band played _one_ note only; but it was so arranged that a hunting tune was formed by these notes being played in succession. when the stag was unharboured, and started across the moor, the band commenced this tune, and until it was played out the hounds were kept in leash. the time occupied by this tune was the "law" given to the stag, and when it was ended the hounds were laid on. a famous china bowl was made in china, and presented to sir thomas by the hunt. this bowl used to be kept at higher combe; it represented a stag-hunt. and twelve glasses were presented to sir thomas along with it, each engraved with a stag, and the words, "success to the hunting." one day sir thomas said to rawle, "rawle, i want to send a gelding and a mare in foal to duke ludwig of baden, at baden baden. can you take them?" "certainly, sir thomas." the man could neither read nor write, and of course knew no other language than the broadest exmoor dialect--and this was at the beginning of the century, when there were not the facilities for travelling that there are now. he started for baden baden, and took his charges there in safety, and delivered them over to the grand duke. he had, however, an added difficulty, in that the mare foaled _en route_, and he had a pass for two ponies only. is the old "good and faithful servant" a thing of the past? not perhaps the good servant, but the servant who continues in a family through the greatest portion of his or her life, who becomes a part of the family, is probably gone for ever; the change in the signification of words tells us of social changes. a man's family, even in addison's time, comprised his servants. "of what does your family consist?" a hundred and fifty years ago this would have been answered by an enumeration of those comprising the household, from the children to the scullion. now who would even think of a servant when such a question is asked? the family is shrunk to the blood-relatives, and the servants are outside the family circle. we are in a condition of transformation in our relations to our servants; we no longer dream of making them our friends, and consequently they no longer regard us with devotion. but i am not sure that the fault lies with the master. the spirit of unrest is in the land; the uneducated and the partially educated crave for excitement, and find it in change; they can no longer content themselves with remaining in one situation, and when the servants shift quarters every year or two, how can master and mistress feel affection for them, or take interest in them? does the reader know swift's _rules and directions for servants_? they occupy one hundred and eighteen pages of volume twelve of his works, in the edition of , and comprise instructions to butler, cook, footman, coachman, groom, steward, chambermaid, housemaid, nurse, etc. they show us that human nature among servants was much the same in the middle of last century as in this. only a scanty extract must be given. "when your master or lady calls a servant by name, if that servant be not in the way, none of you are to answer, for then there will be no end of your drudgery. "when you have done a fault be always pert and insolent, and behave yourself as if you were the injured person. "the cook, the butler, the groom, and every other servant should act as if his master's whole estate ought to be applied to that particular servant's business. "take all tradesmen's parts against your master. you are to consider if your master hath paid too much, he can better afford the loss than a poor tradesman. "never submit to stir a finger in any business but that for which you were particularly hired. for example, if the groom be drunk or absent, and the butler be ordered to shut the stable-door, the answer is ready, 'an' please, your honour, i don't understand horses.' "if you find yourself to grow into favour with your master or lady, take some opportunity to give them warning, and when they ask the reason, and seem loath to part with you, answer that a poor servant is not to be blamed if he strives to better himself. upon which, if your master hath any generosity, he will add five or ten shillings a quarter rather than let you go. "write your own name and your sweetheart's with the smoke of a candle on the roof of the kitchen, to show your learning. if you are a young sightly fellow, whenever you whisper your mistress at the table, run your nose full into her cheek, or breathe full in her face. "never come till you have been called three or four times, for none but dogs will come at the first whistle. "when you have broken all your earthen vessels below stairs--which is usually done in a week--the copper-pot will do as well; it can boil milk, heat porridge, hold small beer--apply it indifferently to all these uses, but never wash or scour it. "although you are allowed knives for the servants' hall at meals, yet you ought to spare them, and make use of your master's. "let it be a constant rule, that no chair or table in the servants' hall have above three legs. "quarrel with each other as much as you please, only always bear in mind that you have a common enemy, which is your master and lady. "when your master and lady go abroad together to dine, you need leave only one servant in the house to answer the door and attend the children. who is to stay at home is to be determined by short and long cuts, and the stayer at home may be comforted by a visit from a sweetheart. "when your master or lady comes home, and wants a servant who happens to be abroad, your answer must be, that he had but just that minute stepped out, being sent for by a cousin who was dying. when you are chidden for a fault, as you go out of the room mutter loud enough to be plainly heard. "when your lady sends for you to her chamber to give you orders, be sure to stand at the door and keep it open, fiddling with the lock all the while she is talking to you. "when you want proper instruments for any work you are about, use all expedients you can invent. for instance, if the poker be out of the way, stir the fire with the tongs; if the tongs be not at hand, use the muzzle of the bellows, the wrong end of the shovel, or the handle of the fire-brush. if you want paper to singe a fowl, tear the first book you see about the house. wipe your shoes, for want of a clout, on the bottom of a curtain or a damask napkin. "there are several ways of putting out a candle, and you ought to be instructed in them all: you may run the candle-end against the wainscot, which puts the snuff out immediately; you may lay it on the ground and tread the snuff out with your foot; you may hold it upside down until it is choked in its own grease, or cram it into the socket of the candlestick; you may whirl it round in your hand till it goes out. "clean your plate, wipe your knives, and rub the dirty tables with the napkins and tablecloths used that day, for it is but one washing. "when a butler cleans the plate, leave the whiting plainly to be seen in all the chinks, for fear your lady should not believe you had cleaned it. "you need not wipe your knife to cut bread for the table, because in cutting a slice or two it will wipe itself. "a butler must always put his finger into every bottle to feel whether it be full. "whet the backs of your knives until they are as sharp as the edge, that when gentlemen find them blunt on one side they may try the other. "cooks should scrape the bottom of pots and kettles with a silver spoon, for fear of giving them a taste of copper. "get three or four charwomen to attend you constantly in the kitchen, whom you pay with the broken meat, a few coals, and all the cinders. "never make use of a spoon in anything that you can do with your hands, for fear of wearing out your master's plate. "in roasting and boiling use none but the large coals, and save the small ones for the fires above stairs." and so on. if the old servants had their merits, they had also their demerits. have they not bequeathed the latter to their successors, and carried away their merits with them into a better world? [illustration] chapter xiii. the hunt. [illustration] the genuine englishman loves a hunt, loves sport, above everything else; i do not mean only those who can afford to ride and shoot, but every englishman born and bred in the country. one day the masons were engaged on my house, on the top of a scaffold, the carpenters were occupied within laying a floor, some painters were employed on doors and windows, the gardener was putting into a bed some roses; in the back-yard a youth was chopping up wood; in the stable-yard the coachman was washing the body of the carriage, and in the stable itself the groom was currycombing a horse. suddenly from the hillside opposite, mantled with oak, came the sound of the hounds in cry, and then the call of the horn. down from the scaffold came the masons, head over heels, at the risk of their necks; out through the windows shot the carpenters and painters, throwing aside hammers, nails, paint-pot and brushes; down went the roses in the garden; from behind the house leaped the wood-chopper; the coach was left half-washed, and the horse half-currycombed; and over the lawn and through the grounds, regardless of everything, went a wild excited throng of masons, carpenters, woodcutter, coachman, stable-boy, gardener, my own sons, then my own self, having dropped pen, and, forgotten on the terrace was left only the baby--a male, erect in its perambulator, with arms extended, screaming to follow the rout and go after the hounds. let agitators come and storm and denounce in the midst of our people; they cannot rouse them to fury against the gentry, because they and the gentry run after the hounds together, enjoy a hunt together, and are the best of friends in the field. no, the great socialistic revolution will not take place till the hunt is abolished. that is the great solvent of all prejudices, that the great festival that binds all in one common bond of sympathy. [illustration: the hunt passing.] this season there has appeared at our meets an old man of seventy-five, who was for many years a butler to a rector, a quiet, studious man, who died a few years ago. after the death of his master the butler retired on his savings, and built himself a house. then--this winter he appeared on a cob at the meet of the foxhounds. "sir," said he to the master, "now the ambition of my life is satisfied. since i was a boy i have wished, and all my days have worked, that i might have a cob on which i could hunt." alas! the old fellow found himself so stiff after the first hunt, that at the next meet of the harriers he appeared on foot. he had walked four miles to it; and _he ran with the hounds_, and was in at the death. after the hunt he walked home hot and happy, and elastic in step. the farmers naturally like a hunt, as it affords them, apart from the sport, an occasion of showing off and selling their horses. the workmen like a hunt, especially after the hare, for it forms a break in their work. they have their half day's sport, and their masters pay wage just the same as if they had been at work. the hare hunt naturally lends itself to footers, as the hare runs in a circle, and not straight with the wind in his tail like reynard. here and there is to be found a cantankerous farmer who objects to having his hedges broken down and his land trampled by the hunters, but he is looked on with distrust and dislike by all in every class, and spoken of as a curmudgeon. of course, also, there are to be found men who trap and kill foxes, but i verily believe those men's consciences sting them far more on this account than if they had committed a fraud or become drunk. and--by the way, that reminds me of a story. there came a hungarian nobleman, whom we will call the baron hounymhum, to england. his christian name was arpad. he came to england, having a title, but having nothing else; he came, in fact, to seek there his fortune. belonging to a good family, he was well supplied with letters of introduction, and he was received into society. on more than one occasion he donned his uniform, and had reason to believe that the uniform as well as his handsome face was much admired by the ladies, and envied by the men. among the acquaintances he made was the hon. cecil blank, through whom he was introduced to one of the first clubs in piccadilly. he also got acquainted with lord ashwater. this nobleman was fond of collecting around him notabilities of all kinds, literary, scientific, and political. he himself was in his politics an advanced liberal. the baron arpad found, to his astonishment, soon after his arrival in town, that a rumour had got about that he had been implicated in an attempt to assassinate his most gracious sovereign franz joseph, king of hungary and bohemia, and emperor of austria. the idea was absolutely baseless. the fact that he was received at the embassy ought to have shut men's mouths, but no--he was credited with having contrived an infernal machine for the destruction of his beloved sovereign. he found, to his amazement, that this rumour did him good. he became an _interesting_ foreigner; hitherto he had been _only_ a foreigner. quite an eager feeling manifested itself among persons of rank and position for having him at their parties; not only so, but he was solicited by magazine editors to write for them articles on the anarchist party in hungary and austria. scarce had this odious rumour died away, before he became the victim of another, equally false and equally detestable. a distant cousin, the baron adorian hounymhum, ran away with the princess nornenstein, the mother of three sweet little children. the elopement caused a great sensation at vienna, as the princess was much esteemed by her majesty the empress. prince nornenstein pursued the fugitives, overtook them in belgium, fought a duel with the baron, and was shot through the heart. well, the report got about that it was baron arpad who had run away with the princess, ruined her home, deprived her sweet children of father and mother, and shot the aggrieved husband. it was in vain for him to protest, he was credited with these infamies--and rose in popular estimation. the duchess of belgravia at once invited him to her dances. the ladies now courted his society, as before the gentlemen had courted it, when they held him to be a would-be regicide. these two rumours, crediting him with crimes of which he was incapable, did a great deal towards pushing him in society. among the many acquaintances the baron made in town was mr. wildbrough, a country squire, m.f.h., a man of wealth, and an m.p. for his county. he had but one daughter, who would be his heiress, and who did not seem insensible to the good looks of the baron. now, thought the hungarian, his opportunity had arrived. the position of landed proprietor in england was in prospect. moreover, mr. wildbrough had invited the baron to come to wildbrough hall in october to see the first meet of the foxhounds. at the time appointed the baron arrived, and was cordially received by the squire; mrs. wildbrough was gracious, but not gushing; mary wildbrough was manifestly pleased to see him--the tell-tale blood assured him of that. a large party was assembled at the hall for the first meet of the season. the masters of other packs in the county were present. the meet was picturesque, the run excellent. the baron was in at the death, and received the brush, which he at once presented to mary wildbrough. he had ridden beside her, and he felt that his prospects were brightening. he proposed to make the offer that evening at the dance after dinner, when, at mary's particular request, he was to appear in his magyar hussar uniform, in which, as he well knew, he would be irresistible. the baron took in mary to dinner, and had an agreeable chat with her, which was only interrupted by sir harry treadwin, a sporting baronet, who said across the table to him, "baron, i suppose that you have foxes in hungary?" "oh, yes," answered he, "_i have shot as many as five or six in a day_." the baron spoke loud, so as to be heard by all. he was quite unprepared for the consequences. sir harry stared at him as at a ghost, with eyes and nostrils and mouth distended. a dead silence fell on the whole company. the host's red face changed colour, and became as collared brawn. the master of another pack became purple as a plum. mrs. wildbrough fanned herself vigorously. mary became white as a lily and trembled, whilst tears welled up in her beautiful eyes. the lady of the house bowed to the lady whom the squire had taken in, and in silence all rose, and the ladies without a word left the room. the gentlemen remained; conversation slowly unthawed. the baron turned to the gentleman nearest him, and spoke about matters of general interest. he answered shortly, almost rudely, and turned to converse with his neighbour on the other side. then the baron addressed sir harry, but he seemed deaf, he stared icily, but made no reply. it was a relief to an intolerable restraint when the gentlemen joined the ladies. the baron knew that with his handsome face and gorgeous uniform he could command as many partners in the dance as he desired; but what was his chagrin to find that his anticipations were disappointed. one young lady was engaged, another did not dance the mazurka, a third had forgotten the lancers, a fourth was tired, and a fifth indisposed. after a while he seized his chance, and caught mary wildbrough in the conservatory,--she was crying. "miss wildbrough," said he, "are you ill? what ails you?" "oh, baron!" then she burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. "i am so--so unhappy! five or six foxes! oh, baron hounymhum!" next day he left. his host would not shake hands with him when he departed. on reaching town he felt dull, and sauntered to the club, but no one would speak to him there. next day he received this letter from the secretary-- "the secretary of the ---- club regrets to be obliged to inform the baron hounymhum that he can no longer be considered the guest of the club." after that london society was sealed to him. it was nothing that he had been thought guilty of an attempt to assassinate his sovereign, nothing that he was thought to have eloped with a married woman, wrecked her home and shot her husband, but that he should have shot foxes was the unpardonable sin. we have a peculiar institution in the county of devon--a week of hare-hunting on dartmoor after hare-hunting has ceased everywhere else. dartmoor is a high elevated region totally treeless, with peaks covered with granite, having brawling streams that foam down the valleys between. one main road crosses this vast desolate region, as far as two bridges, where is an inn, the saracen's head, and there it divides, and runs for many miles more over moor to moreton hampstead on one side, and to ashburton on the other. in the fork of this y stands an eminently picturesque rugged tor, crested by and strewn with granite, called bellever. about easter--anyhow, after hare-hunting has ceased elsewhere--the country-side gathers at bellever for a week, and nothing can be conceived more changed than the scene at this time from the usual solitude and stillness. the tor is covered with horses, traps, carriages, footers; and if the spring sun be shining, nothing can well be more picturesque. whatever may be said or sung to the contrary, hunting on dartmoor is dangerous work. there are no hedges there, only walls, and these walls are set up round what are locally termed "takes," or enclosures, and are made of the granite stones found lying about in the take; they are not put together with mortar, but are loosely built up one stone on another, and the wind blows through the interstices. more nasty accidents would happen over these walls, were it not that the moor turf is spongy and boggy, so that when a man is thrown he is lightly received. concerning this bellever week there exists a song-- "bellever week is the bravest week of fifty-two in the year. 'tis one to tweak a teetotaller's beak, and to make a methody swear. we leave our troubles and toils behind, forget if we've got gray hair-- a parcel of boys, all frolic and noise, bidding begone dull care. bellever week is the bravest, &c. there's never a run so brimming with fun, nor a pastime that may compare, for master or horse, o'er heather and gorse, as hunting a dartmoor hare. though sure of a stogg to the girths in a bog, or a turn up of heels at a wall, yet never a jot of damage was got by a flounder there, or a fall. bellever week, &c. there's nowhere a puss deserving a cuss for running as on the moor. in bellever week the harriers speak as they never spoke before. the saracen's head is full as an egg, and every farm and cot. the jolliest set together are met in the out and out jolliest spot. bellever week, &c. nowhere else does a joke such laughter provoke, or a tale so hearty a roar, or a song that is sung with stentorian lung, more certain of an _encore_! when bellever week returns again, my wife--let her storm and sneer; if not tucked into bed with a stone at my head, by ginger!--i _will_ be there. bellever week, &c." how full life is of coincidences! we are always encountering and wondering at them. to some the coincidences that we know to be true seem incredible. here is one. the master of a very notable pack of foxhounds died. he had been master for something like thirty years; his father was master before him, and his son is master after him. a man of intense love of the sport. in the dining-room hang the portraits of three generations, all in pink. he died and was buried amidst universal sorrow. of course the pack did not go out that week. the first meet after the funeral was at a distance of very many miles. the fox was started, and ran, straight as an arrow, towards the residence of the late master, ran through the park, pursued by the hounds, ran across the garden to the churchyard, ran to the vault, and took refuge against the iron door that closed it, and concealed the coffin of the dead m.f.h. and there, against his vault door, the fox was killed, and the yelping, bounding, barking pack careered within a few feet of his coffin. this story i believe to be perfectly true. it was a coincidence, and a singular one. till the end of the seventeenth century fox-hunting can scarcely be said to have existed as a sport in england, the stag, the buck, and the hare taking the precedence with our forefathers as objects of the chase, which in a still earlier period had included the wolf and the boar. and yet i have over my hall fireplace, in the carved oak chimney-piece, a representation of a fox-hunt that certainly belongs to the reign of elizabeth. the hunters are armed with pitchforks, or something much like them; one is holding back a greyhound by a leash; another is winding a horn. there are ten dogs in the pack, long-eared beagles or dachshunds, it is hard to say what. the fox has eaten one goose all but the head and wings, and has killed a second, and is taking refuge in a pinery among the pine-apples. our deer-parks about the great mansions are the remnants of deer-parks or chases that were originally found about the manor-houses in most places. they were not always very extensive, very often were only small paddocks where the deer were kept; and one was let run occasionally for a grand chase. these old paddocks with the ruined walls about them, or without, when they were surrounded by palings, that have long ago rotted away, still go by the name of the chase, and so remind us of the sports of our forefathers. james i. was an enthusiastic sportsman. although in his various kennels he had little short of two hundred couple of hounds, and the cost of their maintenance was a serious draught upon his privy purse, yet he never seemed satisfied that he had enough, so long as he heard of any good hound in the possession of a subject. among the state papers is an amusing letter relative to a piece of ill-luck that befell a favourite dog. "the king is at tibbalds, and the queen gone or going to him. at this last meeting, being at tibbalds, which was about a fortnight since, the queen, shooting at a deer with her crossbow, mistook her mark, and killed jewell, the king's most special and principal hound, at which he stormed exceeding awhile, swearing many and great oaths. none would undertake to break unto him the news, so they were fain to send archie the fool on the errand. but after he knew who did it, he was soon pacified, and with much kindness wished her not to be troubled with it, for he should love her never the worse, and the next day sent her a _jewell_ worth £ , 'as a legacy from his dead dog.' love and kindness increase daily between them, and it is thought they were never on better terms." our early hunting songs all concern the stag. one of the very "ancientest ditties" we have is, _the hunt is upp_-- "the hunt is up, the hunt is up, and it is well-nigh day; and harry our king is gone hunting, to bring his deer to bay." a very pretty song it is of the reign of bluff hal, but the earliest song relating to a fox that i know is that of _to-morrow the fox will come to town_, of the same period, and in that there is no mention of reynard as an object of sport. his thievish qualities are recorded, that is all. "to-morrow the fox will come to town, keep, keep, keep, keep! to-morrow the fox will come to town, o keep you all well there. i must desire you neighbours all, to hallo the fox out of the hall, and cry as loud as you can call, whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop! and cry as loud as you can call, o keep you all well there." in the porch of lewanick church, in cornwall, the piece of freestone that supports the seat on which the gaffers sat before and after church is sculptured with a hare-hunt. the date is about the fifteenth century. in the popular mind the hare-hunt, for the reason already given, that it allows of better sport for the footers, is a favourite subject of song rather than the fox-hunt, the delights of which are sung by huntsmen more than by the peasants. it is curious how the reminiscence of famous runs lingers on among the people. there is a great song that used to be sung at all hunting dinners in devon relative to the achievements of one arscott of tetcott, who is supposed still to hunt the country in spirit with a ghostly pack-- "when the tempest is howling his horn you may hear, and the bay of his hounds in their headlong career; for arscott of tetcott loves hunting so well, that he breaks for the pastime from heaven--or hell." [illustration: fox-hunt, from hall chimney-piece, lew trenchard.] chapter xiv. the county town. [illustration] does the reader know one of the most fascinating books of a most fascinating of our old writers, _belford regis_, by miss mary russell mitford? if not, and he or she desires to be carried back on the broad, sweeping, somewhat sad-coloured wings of fancy to the past, to a time before railways, then let _belford regis_ be procured, and read, and smiled, and perhaps a little sighed over. as in _our village_ the authoress sketched the country, so in _belford regis_ did she sketch the little county town at the beginning of the present century. [illustration: south gate launceston] "about three miles to the north of our village stands the good town of belford regis. the approach to it, straight as a dart, runs along a wide and populous turnpike road, all alive with carts and coaches, waggons and phaetons, horse-people and foot-people, sweeping rapidly or creeping lazily up and down the gentle undulations with which the surface of the country is varied; and the borders, checkered by patches of common, rich with hedgerow timber, and sprinkled with cottages, and, i grieve to say, with that cottage pest, the beer-house,--and here and there enlivened by dwellings of more pretension and gentility,--become more thickly inhabited as we draw nearer the metropolis of the county, to say nothing of the three cottages all in a row, with two small houses attached, which a board affixed to one of them informs the passer-by is two-mile cross; or of these opposite neighbours, the wheelwrights and the blacksmiths, about half a mile further; or the little farm close by the pound; or the series of buildings called the long row, terminating at the end next the road with an old-fashioned and most picturesque public-house, with painted roofs, and benches at the door and round the large elm before it--benches which are generally filled by thirsty wayfarers and waggoners watering their horses, and partaking of a more generous liquor themselves. [illustration: cottages at woking: cottages at the entrance to a town.] "leaving these objects undescribed, no sooner do we get within a mile of the town, than our approach is indicated by successive market-gardens on either side, crowned, as we ascend the long hill on which the turnpike-gate stands, by an extensive nursery-ground, gay with long beds of flowers, with trellised walks covered with creepers, with whole acres of flowering shrubs, and ranges of green-houses, the glass glittering in the southern sun. then the turnpike gate, with its civil keeper, then another public-house, then the clear bright pond on the top of the hill, and then the rows of small tenements, with here and there a more ambitious single cottage standing in its own pretty garden, which forms the usual gradation from the country to the town. "about this point, where one road, skirting the great pond and edged by small houses, diverges from the great southern entrance, and where two streets, meeting or parting, lead by separate ways down the steep hill to the centre of the town, stands a handsome mansion, surrounded by orchards and pleasure-grounds, across which is perhaps to be seen the very best view of belford, with its long ranges of modern buildings in the outskirts, mingled with picturesque old streets, the venerable towers of st. stephen's and st. nicholas', the light and tapering spire of st. john's, the huge monastic ruins of the abbey, the massive walls of the county gaol, the great river winding along like a thread of silver, trees and gardens mingling amongst all, and the whole landscape environed and lightened by the drooping elms of the foreground, adding an illusive beauty to the picture by breaking the too formal outline, and veiling just exactly those parts which most require concealment. "nobody can look at belford from this point without feeling that it is a very english and very charming scene, and the impression does not diminish on farther acquaintance. we see at once the history of the place, that it is an antique borough town, which has recently been extended to nearly double its former size; so that it unites in no common degree the old romantic, irregular structures in which our ancestors delighted, with the handsome and uniform buildings which are the fashion now-a-days. i suppose that people are right in their taste, and that the modern houses are pleasantest to live in, but, beyond all question, those antique streets are the prettiest to look at. the occasional blending too is good. witness the striking piece of street scenery which was once accidentally forced upon my attention as i took shelter from a shower of rain in a shop about ten doors up the right-hand side of friar street--the old vicarage-house of st. nicholas embowered in greens, the lofty town-hall, and the handsome modern house of my friend mr. beauchamp, the fine church tower of st. nicholas, the picturesque piazza underneath, the jutting corner of friar street, the old irregular shops in the market-place, and the trees of the forbury just peeping between, with all their varieties of light and shadow. i went to the door to see if the shower was over, was caught by its beauty, and stood looking at it in the sunshine long after the rain had ceased." i make no apology for this long extract. miss mitford is not much read now, and those who read her are always glad to re-read a passage from her fresh and graphic pen. [illustration: london inn launceston: street in launceston.] that there may be more picturesqueness in an old german, italian, and french town may be admitted, but it is of a more salient, obtrusive character than that which exists in our old county towns. the continental architects aimed at bold effects. i do not say that they were wrong. they achieved great success. our architects built what was wanted, in a quiet, undemonstrative manner, and left effect to chance, and chance gave what they did not seek. the charms of an old english county town do not force themselves on our notice, are missed altogether by the hasty visitor; they have to be found out, they come by surprises, they depend on certain lights and plays of shadow, on the bursting into leaf of certain trees, on the setting up of certain hucksters' stalls. that a great deal of their picturesqueness is passing away is, alas! only too true. the tradesmen want huge window spaces for the display of their goods, so away is knocked the quaint old frontage of the house, and is replaced by something that can be sustained on iron supports between wide sheets of plate-glass. the suburbs are being made hideous with rows of model cottages, all precisely alike, roofed with blue slate. nevertheless a great deal remains, and it is fortunately now something like a fashion to give us queen anne (so-called) gables in the streets, which at all events afford a pretty broken sky-line, and a play of light and shade on the frontage. then how different are the outskirts of a foreign town to an english country town. in italy there are miles of lanes between high stone walls, over which indeed lemons show their glorious fruit and blaze in the sun; nevertheless, the sorry fact remains, that for as far as one cares to walk there is no prospect save by favour through a gate. at florence, for instance, it is wall, wall, on the right hand and on the left, all the way to fiesole; and to the south, beyond s. miniato, up and down the hills, wall, wall, on the right hand and on the left. at genoa the city is engirded with hills, indeed the town lies in a crater, broken down to the west to the sea. climb near two thousand feet to the encircling fortresses, and you go between wall, wall, all the way. escape along the sea to sampierdarema on one side, on the other to st. fruttuoso, and it is a way between wall and house, house and wall. and a french town, or a german town, or a belgian town, starts up suddenly out of bare fields, without trees, without hedges, with a suburb of tall, hideous, stuccoed, badly-built houses, all precisely alike and equally ugly. there are no cottages. come back to england, and at once you discover that the cottage is that which gives charm to the approach of a town, it is the moss, the lichen that adheres to the wall, a softening, beautiful feature in itself. then there are our hedges and hedgerow trees, and how different from the stiff avenues of poplar, and the boulevards of set planes, exactly ten paces apart. every foreign city was fortified, and outside the fortifications the glacis had to be kept clear of trees and buildings, so as not to give cover to the enemy. this fact has influenced the approach to all continental towns, they are not led up to as in england; and the poor are lodged differently--they occupy big houses, which they delight in making untidy, and exposing the dishevelled condition of their dwellings to every passer-by. the very lanes between walls are untidy--every possible scrap of refuse collects in them, the stray feathers of fowls that have been plucked throughout the year eddy there, old rags--discarded only when dropping off--rot there, scraps of tin canister are kicked about there, old boots get sodden there. but there is always an effort after tidiness about english cottages; and somehow the approaches to our towns are not offensive to eye and nose, but quite the reverse; the pretty cottages, their well-cared-for gardens, the villas with bosquets of seringa and lilac, combine in making the approach full of studies for the painter--reposeful pictures of general comfort and happiness. [illustration: dockacre: launceston: old town house, launceston.] in a foreign town the palace jostles with the gaunt house in which the poor herd. in england there are no palaces in our country towns, but there are excellent middle-class mansions, the queen anne red brick tall house, with stone quoins, where lives the substantial solicitor, who makes the wills and draws up the leases for all the squires of the neighbourhood, who is clerk of the petty sessions, and is consulted by every one more as a confidential friend than as a professional man. there is the prim house, with exactly as many windows on one side of the door as on the other, and a round-headed window over it, where three old ladies keep a school for girls. there is the many-gabled house inhabited by the late rector's widow. there is the quaint slated house with its bow-windows, within rich with beautiful plaster work and carved wood, supposed to be by grinling gibbons. it has a garden in terraces descending to the river, with vases on the balustrade of the terraces full of scarlet geraniums. then there comes the modern county bank of cut stone, and of inconceivable incongruity and ugliness; then an old inn frequented by the tory squires in past days. there is the old grammar school with its pedimented door and ivy creeping over the red-brick walls, fought with every year, and forced back from overrunning the windows, as it has overrun the walls. there is the doctor's house, with a portico supported by slim corinthian pillars, and with a lead above, on which the doctor's wife sets out her flowers, that make a blaze of colour up and down the street. there is the stuccoed wine merchant's house--always painted drab every third year--that has red blinds, through which the lamps at night diffuse a ruby glow into the street. there is that long wall with an elaborately wrought iron gate, with link extinguishers to the side posts, and a small but overgrown garden of shrubs, behind which lurks a thatched cottage where lives a widow--lady this or that, the mother of the present baronet who resides three miles off at the park. there is the rectory, with its back to the street, and windows so low that the passers-by can see in--or could till they were furnished with twisted cane screens. but then the other side of the parsonage looks into the most charming of gardens, on what was the city wall, whence a glorious view is obtained. but the space would fail me were i to describe, or merely indicate, the various houses of people, some professional, some retired gentry, some retired tradespeople, in a country town, all speaking of comfort, ease, and peace. thus wrote horace walpole in , on his return to england from italy--"the country-town (and you will believe me, who you know am not prejudiced) delights me; the populousness, the ease, the gaiety, the well-dressed everybody amaze me. canterbury--which on my setting out i thought deplorable--is a paradise to modena, reggio, parma, etc. i had before discovered that there was nowhere but in england the distinction of _middling people_; i perceive now that there is peculiar to us _middling houses_;--how snug they are!" [illustration: house at launceston: queen anne town house.] how sleepy the dear old country town is on all days of the week save market-day. the shopkeepers do not think it necessary to remain behind their counters, but run across the street or the square to have a chat with each other, and should a purchaser appear, it interrupts a gossip where two or three tradesmen are together; or if the purchaser goes into a deserted shop, he has to wait whilst the owner is fetched from some neighbour's, whither he has gone to discuss the new scheme for water supply, or the bad quality of the gas. every squire's carriage, every parson's trap of the neighbourhood is known to every one in the town; and should one come in on a day that is not market-day, the reason of its appearance is a subject of much conjecture and discussion. but how the town wakes up on market-day; how all the tradesmen recover from somnolence, and are nimble on their feet, and full of promises to get this bit of ironmongery attended to at once, such lamp-chimneys fitted, to write to london to order such a lace or such a silk matched--out of stock only yesterday, and to get this watch cleaned, or to reset a stone in that ring, or to alter the stuffing of such a lady's saddle that galls, or to provide so many pounds of cake for a school-treat; and the milliner is hard at work all day fitting gowns, or trying on hats; and the hairdresser's fingers are never resting from snip, snip, snip, and the boy from working the treadmill that sets the rotary-brush in motion; and the ostler is engaged in taking his shillings; and the fishmonger in serving up his baskets of soles and mackerel; and the nursery-gardener in making up bouquets; and the oil-man in filling cans with benzoline, which have to go back under the coachman's feet, as has also a crate with plates from the crockery-shop--that tiresome kitchen-maid does bang the plates about so that she has not left one unsnipped; and the photographer is occupied the whole day setting heads into an apparatus for holding them steady, and pulling down or drawing up blinds; and the dentist is also engaged in relieving persons with swollen cheeks; and in the workhouse congregate the board of guardians, and talk over the merits of such and such a case, and the allowance to be made per week. there are notices about on all the walls that amateur theatricals will be given in the new town hall in behalf of the local hunt; and the neighbours are bringing in their fox's brushes and masks wherewith to decorate the proscenium and the walls of the hall. the poor old assembly room, something like a grecian temple, but copied--and badly copied--in stucco, is now given up to a dealer in antiquities, second-hand furniture, and old china. that assembly room in which our grandmothers danced is now piled up with beds, large oil-paintings, chiffoniers, fire-irons and fenders, staircase clocks, and an endless amount of rubbish for which no one, one would suppose, could be found to be purchaser. the assembly balls, the hunt balls, the bachelors' balls, the concerts, and, as we have seen, the dramatical entertainments, now take place in the new town hall. the old county town is thriving. it is a place to which all the neighbourhood gravitates. there is now a setting of the tide into towns, and ebb in the country places. servants will not go to the country. meat, dairy produce, fowls, are as dear in the country as in the towns. in the towns it is not necessary to keep a pony carriage; in the towns there is escape from those village parasites who fall on and eat up those who settle in the country; and in the towns there is more going on. in the towns educational advantages are to be had which are lacking in the country. so, not only do old ladies go to towns, but also families fairly well off; and the country is becoming deserted. small, pretty houses do not let well there; great houses not at all. so the country towns are eating up the country. 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"plate glass" to "plate-glass" p. . "mrs chowne" to "mrs. chowne" p. . "peform" to "perform" p. . "brauls" to "braules" p. . "duke of monmoth" to "duke of monmouth" p. . the decade of the marriage date of ab is unclear in this edition, but visible as in an alternate source. p. . "wipe you shoes" to "wipe your shoes" end pages (publications). "finger's en" to "finger's end" in the text both teetotaller and teetotaler used and have been left as printed. special thanks are due to sharon partridge for extensive proofreading and correction of this etext. sense and sensibility by jane austen ( ) chapter the family of dashwood had long been settled in sussex. their estate was large, and their residence was at norland park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. the late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. but her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew mr. henry dashwood, the legal inheritor of the norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. in the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old gentleman's days were comfortably spent. his attachment to them all increased. the constant attention of mr. and mrs. henry dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence. by a former marriage, mr. henry dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters. the son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. by his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. to him therefore the succession to the norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property, could be but small. their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life-interest in it. the old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. he was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;--but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. mr. dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son;--but to his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. the whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. he meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece. mr. dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. but the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth. he survived his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters. his son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him mr. dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters. mr. john dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make them comfortable. his father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and mr. john dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them. he was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was:--he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. but mrs. john dashwood was a strong caricature of himself;--more narrow-minded and selfish. when he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece. he then really thought himself equal to it. the prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity.-- "yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! it would be enough to make them completely easy. three thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience."-- he thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent. no sooner was his father's funeral over, than mrs. john dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants. no one could dispute her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in mrs. dashwood's situation, with only common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;--but in her mind there was a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of immovable disgust. mrs. john dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it. so acutely did mrs. dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their brother. elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in mrs. dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. she had an excellent heart;--her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught. marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to elinor's. she was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. she was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but prudent. the resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great. elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by mrs. dashwood it was valued and cherished. they encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction. the agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again and again. they gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future. elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert herself. she could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance. margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of marianne's romance, without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life. chapter mrs. john dashwood now installed herself mistress of norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors. as such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child. he really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider norland as their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to mrs. dashwood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted. a continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight, was exactly what suited her mind. in seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. but in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy. mrs. john dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his sisters. to take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. she begged him to think again on the subject. how could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so large a sum? and what possible claim could the miss dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount. it was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters? "it was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that i should assist his widow and daughters." "he did not know what he was talking of, i dare say; ten to one but he was light-headed at the time. had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child." "he did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear fanny; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. he could hardly suppose i should neglect them. but as he required the promise, i could not do less than give it; at least i thought so at the time. the promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. something must be done for them whenever they leave norland and settle in a new home." "well, then, let something be done for them; but that something need not be three thousand pounds. consider," she added, "that when the money is once parted with, it never can return. your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. if, indeed, it could be restored to our poor little boy--" "why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make great difference. the time may come when harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. if he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition." "to be sure it would." "perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one half.--five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!" "oh! beyond anything great! what brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if really his sisters! and as it is--only half blood!--but you have such a generous spirit!" "i would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "one had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. no one, at least, can think i have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect more." "there is no knowing what they may expect," said the lady, "but we are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can afford to do." "certainly--and i think i may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. as it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable fortune for any young woman." "to be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. they will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. if they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds." "that is very true, and, therefore, i do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind i mean.--my sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. a hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable." his wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan. "to be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. but, then, if mrs. dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in." "fifteen years! my dear fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase." "certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. an annuity is a very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. you are not aware of what you are doing. i have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing. my mother was quite sick of it. her income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. it has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that i am sure i would not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world." "it is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied mr. dashwood, "to have those kind of yearly drains on one's income. one's fortune, as your mother justly says, is not one's own. to be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's independence." "undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. they think themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. if i were you, whatever i did should be done at my own discretion entirely. i would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly. it may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses." "i believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case; whatever i may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. it will certainly be much the best way. a present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, i think, be amply discharging my promise to my father." "to be sure it will. indeed, to say the truth, i am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all. the assistance he thought of, i dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are in season. i'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. do but consider, my dear mr. dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it. altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that?--they will live so cheap! their housekeeping will be nothing at all. they will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! only conceive how comfortable they will be! five hundred a year! i am sure i cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. they will be much more able to give you something." "upon my word," said mr. dashwood, "i believe you are perfectly right. my father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. i clearly understand it now, and i will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described. when my mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as i can. some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then." "certainly," returned mrs. john dashwood. "but, however, one thing must be considered. when your father and mother moved to norland, though the furniture of stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it." "that is a material consideration undoubtedly. a valuable legacy indeed! and yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here." "yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house. a great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place they can ever afford to live in. but, however, so it is. your father thought only of them. and i must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world to them." this argument was irresistible. it gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out. chapter mrs. dashwood remained at norland several months; not from any disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. but she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have approved. mrs. dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. she doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than l would support her in affluence. for their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. his attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions. the contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions of mrs. dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at norland. this circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of mrs. john dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there. some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for edward ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother. but mrs. dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration. it was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that elinor returned the partiality. it was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible. edward ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. he was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. he was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. his understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement. but he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished--as--they hardly knew what. they wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. his mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day. mrs. john dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. but edward had no turn for great men or barouches. all his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. fortunately he had a younger brother who was more promising. edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of mrs. dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. she saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. he did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. she was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister. it was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother. "it is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike fanny is enough. it implies everything amiable. i love him already." "i think you will like him," said elinor, "when you know more of him." "like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "i feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love." "you may esteem him." "i have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love." mrs. dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. her manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. she speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate. no sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching. "in a few months, my dear marianne." said she, "elinor will, in all probability be settled for life. we shall miss her; but she will be happy." "oh! mama, how shall we do without her?" "my love, it will be scarcely a separation. we shall live within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. you will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. i have the highest opinion in the world of edward's heart. but you look grave, marianne; do you disapprove your sister's choice?" "perhaps," said marianne, "i may consider it with some surprise. edward is very amiable, and i love him tenderly. but yet--he is not the kind of young man--there is something wanting--his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which i should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. his eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. and besides all this, i am afraid, mama, he has no real taste. music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. it is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. he admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. to satisfy me, those characters must be united. i could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. he must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was edward's manner in reading to us last night! i felt for my sister most severely. yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. i could hardly keep my seat. to hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!" "he would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. i thought so at the time; but you would give him cowper." "nay, mama, if he is not to be animated by cowper!--but we must allow for difference of taste. elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. but it would have broke my heart, had i loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. mama, the more i know of the world, the more am i convinced that i shall never see a man whom i can really love. i require so much! he must have all edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. it is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. why should you be less fortunate than your mother? in one circumstance only, my marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" chapter "what a pity it is, elinor," said marianne, "that edward should have no taste for drawing." "no taste for drawing!" replied elinor, "why should you think so? he does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and i assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. had he ever been in the way of learning, i think he would have drawn very well. he distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to edward which produced it. "i hope, marianne," continued elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. indeed, i think i may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if that were your opinion, i am sure you could never be civil to him." marianne hardly knew what to say. she would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. at length she replied: "do not be offended, elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. i have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but i have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. i think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "i am sure," replied elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. i do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly." marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. "of his sense and his goodness," continued elinor, "no one can, i think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. the excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. you know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. but of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. he and i have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. i have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, i venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. his abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. at first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. at present, i know him so well, that i think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. what say you, marianne?" "i shall very soon think him handsome, elinor, if i do not now. when you tell me to love him as a brother, i shall no more see imperfection in his face, than i now do in his heart." elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. she felt that edward stood very high in her opinion. she believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make marianne's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. she knew that what marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. she tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "i do not attempt to deny," said she, "that i think very highly of him--that i greatly esteem, that i like him." marianne here burst forth with indignation-- "esteem him! like him! cold-hearted elinor! oh! worse than cold-hearted! ashamed of being otherwise. use those words again, and i will leave the room this moment." elinor could not help laughing. "excuse me," said she; "and be assured that i meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. believe them to be stronger than i have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion--the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. but farther than this you must not believe. i am by no means assured of his regard for me. there are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. in my heart i feel little--scarcely any doubt of his preference. but there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. he is very far from being independent. what his mother really is we cannot know; but, from fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and i am very much mistaken if edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth. "and you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "yet it certainly soon will happen. but two advantages will proceed from this delay. i shall not lose you so soon, and edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!" elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. she could not consider her partiality for edward in so prosperous a state as marianne had believed it. there was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. a doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. it would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. a more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. she knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. with such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for elinor to feel easy on the subject. she was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship. but, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. she took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of mrs. ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in; that mrs. dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. she gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations. in this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. it was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in devonshire. the letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. he understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. he earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her daughters to barton park, the place of his own residence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether barton cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. he seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. she needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. her resolution was formed as she read. the situation of barton, in a county so far distant from sussex as devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. to quit the neighbourhood of norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was its mistress. she instantly wrote sir john middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent. elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance from norland, than immediately amongst their present acquaintance. on that head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother's intention of removing into devonshire. the house, too, as described by sir john, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending a letter of acquiescence. chapter no sooner was her answer dispatched, than mrs. dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. they heard her with surprise. mrs. john dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from norland. she had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into devonshire.--edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, "devonshire! are you, indeed, going there? so far from hence! and to what part of it?" she explained the situation. it was within four miles northward of exeter. "it is but a cottage," she continued, "but i hope to see many of my friends in it. a room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, i am sure i will find none in accommodating them." she concluded with a very kind invitation to mr. and mrs. john dashwood to visit her at barton; and to edward she gave one with still greater affection. though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which it principally tended. to separate edward and elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show mrs. john dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match. mr. john dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. he really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.-- the furniture was all sent around by water. it chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of marianne's. mrs. john dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling it hard that as mrs. dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture. mrs. dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished, and she might have immediate possession. no difficulty arose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her effects at norland, and to determine her future household, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested her, was soon done.--the horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter. for the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of elinor prevailed. her wisdom too limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their establishment at norland. the man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as lady middleton was entirely unknown to mrs. dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at barton park; and she relied so undoubtingly on sir john's description of the house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own. her eagerness to be gone from norland was preserved from diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be fulfilled. since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. but mrs. dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months at norland. he so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving money away. in a very few weeks from the day which brought sir john middleton's first letter to norland, every thing was so far settled in their future abode as to enable mrs. dashwood and her daughters to begin their journey. many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved. "dear, dear norland!" said marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when shall i cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home elsewhere!--oh! happy house, could you know what i suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps i may view you no more!--and you, ye well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.--no leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe you no longer!--no; you will continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade!--but who will remain to enjoy you?" chapter the first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. but as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of barton valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. it was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. after winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. a small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it. as a house, barton cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. a narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. on each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. it had not been built many years and was in good repair. in comparison of norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. they were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. it was very early in september; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation. the situation of the house was good. high hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. the village of barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. the prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. the hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them. with the size and furniture of the house mrs. dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "as for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. perhaps in the spring, if i have plenty of money, as i dare say i shall, we may think about building. these parlors are both too small for such parties of our friends as i hope to see often collected here; and i have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. i could wish the stairs were handsome. but one must not expect every thing; though i suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. i shall see how much i am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly." in the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to form themselves a home. marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room. in such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. sir john middleton was a good looking man about forty. he had formerly visited at stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him. his countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. he said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at barton park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. his kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game. he insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day. lady middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on mrs. dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day. they were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. lady middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. but they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark. conversation however was not wanted, for sir john was very chatty, and lady middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home. on every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. in the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the others. an opportunity was soon to be given to the dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as sir john would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day. chapter barton park was about half a mile from the cottage. the ladies had passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from their view at home by the projection of a hill. the house was large and handsome; and the middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and elegance. the former was for sir john's gratification, the latter for that of his lady. they were scarcely ever without some friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. it was necessary to the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with such as society produced, within a very narrow compass. sir john was a sportsman, lady middleton a mother. he hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and these were their only resources. lady middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year round, while sir john's independent employments were in existence only half the time. continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the good spirits of sir john, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife. lady middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. but sir john's satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the better was he pleased. he was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen. the arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at barton. the miss dashwoods were young, pretty, and unaffected. it was enough to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her person. the friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. in showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his own manor. mrs. dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by sir john, who welcomed them to barton park with unaffected sincerity; and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. they would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very young nor very gay. he hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. he had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements. luckily lady middleton's mother had arrived at barton within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might imagine. the young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more. mrs. jennings, lady middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather vulgar. she was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in sussex, and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. marianne was vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards elinor to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery as mrs. jennings's. colonel brandon, the friend of sir john, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend, than lady middleton was to be his wife, or mrs. jennings to be lady middleton's mother. he was silent and grave. his appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his being in the opinion of marianne and margaret an absolute old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike. there was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as companions to the dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of lady middleton was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of colonel brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of sir john and his mother-in-law was interesting. lady middleton seemed to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except what related to themselves. in the evening, as marianne was discovered to be musical, she was invited to play. the instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be charmed, and marianne, who sang very well, at their request went through the chief of the songs which lady middleton had brought into the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it. marianne's performance was highly applauded. sir john was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation with the others while every song lasted. lady middleton frequently called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked marianne to sing a particular song which marianne had just finished. colonel brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. he paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste. his pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. she was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity required. chapter mrs. jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. she had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. in the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. she was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at barton decisively to pronounce that colonel brandon was very much in love with marianne dashwood. she rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the middletons' dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. it must be so. she was perfectly convinced of it. it would be an excellent match, for he was rich, and she was handsome. mrs. jennings had been anxious to see colonel brandon well married, ever since her connection with sir john first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl. the immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. at the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at marianne. to the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor. mrs. dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear mrs. jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age. "but at least, mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. colonel brandon is certainly younger than mrs. jennings, but he is old enough to be my father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. it is too ridiculous! when is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" "infirmity!" said elinor, "do you call colonel brandon infirm? i can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "my dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of my decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "mama, you are not doing me justice. i know very well that colonel brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. he may live twenty years longer. but thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "perhaps," said elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. but if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, i should not think colonel brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his marrying her." "a woman of seven and twenty," said marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, i can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. in his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. it would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. in my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. to me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." "it would be impossible, i know," replied elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. but i must object to your dooming colonel brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "but he talked of flannel waistcoats," said marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. confess, marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" soon after this, upon elinor's leaving the room, "mama," said marianne, "i have an alarm on the subject of illness which i cannot conceal from you. i am sure edward ferrars is not well. we have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. what else can detain him at norland?" "had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said mrs. dashwood. "i had none. on the contrary, if i have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when i talked of his coming to barton. does elinor expect him already?" "i have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must." "i rather think you are mistaken, for when i was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time." "how strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! but the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! how cold, how composed were their last adieus! how languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! in edward's farewell there was no distinction between elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. twice did i leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. and elinor, in quitting norland and edward, cried not as i did. even now her self-command is invariable. when is she dejected or melancholy? when does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?" chapter the dashwoods were now settled at barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. the house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their father. sir john middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed. their visitors, except those from barton park, were not many; for, in spite of sir john's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at their service, the independence of mrs. dashwood's spirit overcame the wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. there were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable. about a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of allenham, which issued from that of barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little of norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be better acquainted with it. but they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home. the whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. the high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did marianne and margaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. the weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their book, in spite of marianne's declaration that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off together. they gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears which had prevented their mother and elinor from sharing such delightful sensations. "is there a felicity in the world," said marianne, "superior to this?--margaret, we will walk here at least two hours." margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in their face.-- chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. one consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate. they set off. marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the ground; and margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety. a gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of marianne, when her accident happened. he put down his gun and ran to her assistance. she had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. the gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill. then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour. elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression. had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of mrs. dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings. she thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. but this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. mrs. dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. his name, he replied, was willoughby, and his present home was at allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after miss dashwood. the honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain. his manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions.-- marianne herself had seen less of his mama the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. but she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. his person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her. every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. his name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded. sir john called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and marianne's accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of willoughby at allenham. "willoughby!" cried sir john; "what, is he in the country? that is good news however; i will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on thursday." "you know him then," said mrs. dashwood. "know him! to be sure i do. why, he is down here every year." "and what sort of a young man is he?" "as good a kind of fellow as ever lived, i assure you. a very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in england." "and is that all you can say for him?" cried marianne, indignantly. "but what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? what his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" sir john was rather puzzled. "upon my soul," said he, "i do not know much about him as to all that. but he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer i ever saw. was she out with him today?" but marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of mr. willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "but who is he?" said elinor. "where does he come from? has he a house at allenham?" on this point sir john could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that mr. willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at allenham court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "yes, yes, he is very well worth catching i can tell you, miss dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in somersetshire besides; and if i were you, i would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. miss marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "i do not believe," said mrs. dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that mr. willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of my daughters towards what you call catching him. it is not an employment to which they have been brought up. men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. i am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "he is as good a sort of fellow, i believe, as ever lived," repeated sir john. "i remember last christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down." "did he indeed?" cried marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "that is what i like; that is what a young man ought to be. whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "aye, aye, i see how it will be," said sir john, "i see how it will be. you will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor brandon." "that is an expression, sir john," said marianne, warmly, "which i particularly dislike. i abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are the most odious of all. their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." sir john did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "ay, you will make conquests enough, i dare say, one way or other. poor brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, i can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." chapter marianne's preserver, as margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. he was received by mrs. dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which sir john's account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. miss dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. marianne was still handsomer. her form, though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight. from willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. but when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay. it was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. she could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. they speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. their taste was strikingly alike. the same books, the same passages were idolized by each--or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. he acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. "well, marianne," said elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for one morning i think you have done pretty well. you have already ascertained mr. willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. you know what he thinks of cowper and scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring pope no more than is proper. but how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? you will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask."-- "elinor," cried marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? but i see what you mean. i have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. i have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; i have been open and sincere where i ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful--had i talked only of the weather and the roads, and had i spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared." "my love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with elinor--she was only in jest. i should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend."-- marianne was softened in a moment. willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. he came to them every day. to enquire after marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by marianne's perfect recovery. she was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. he was exactly formed to engage marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. his society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. they read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which edward had unfortunately wanted. in mrs. dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in marianne's; and elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. in hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and marianne could say in its support. marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong. her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as edward and willoughby. colonel brandon's partiality for marianne, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which mrs. jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of mr. willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of colonel brandon. she saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him indifferent. she liked him--in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. his manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. sir john had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion. perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by willoughby and marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits. "brandon is just the kind of man," said willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to." "that is exactly what i think of him," cried marianne. "do not boast of it, however," said elinor, "for it is injustice in both of you. he is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and i never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him." "that he is patronised by you," replied willoughby, "is certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself. who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as lady middleton and mrs. jennings, that could command the indifference of any body else?" "but perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and marianne will make amends for the regard of lady middleton and her mother. if their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust." "in defence of your protege you can even be saucy." "my protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always have attractions for me. yes, marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty. he has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. i have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature." "that is to say," cried marianne contemptuously, "he has told you, that in the east indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are troublesome." "he would have told me so, i doubt not, had i made any such inquiries, but they happened to be points on which i had been previously informed." "perhaps," said willoughby, "his observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins." "i may venture to say that his observations have stretched much further than your candour. but why should you dislike him?" "i do not dislike him. i consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice; who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year." "add to which," cried marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. that his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression." "you decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied elinor, "and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the commendation i am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid. i can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and, i believe, possessing an amiable heart." "miss dashwood," cried willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly. you are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will. but it will not do. you shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful. i have three unanswerable reasons for disliking colonel brandon; he threatened me with rain when i wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and i cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. if it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that i believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, i am ready to confess it. and in return for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever." chapter 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. chapter 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. chapter 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. chapter 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. chapter 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 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 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. chapter 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. chapter edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by mrs. dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at the height. his spirits, during the last two or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved--he grew more and more partial to the house and environs--never spoke of going away without a sigh--declared his time to be wholly disengaged--even doubted to what place he should go when he left them--but still, go he must. never had any week passed so quickly--he could hardly believe it to be gone. he said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. he had no pleasure at norland; he detested being in town; but either to norland or london, he must go. he valued their kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time. elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse for every thing strange on the part of her son. disappointed, however, and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications, which had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for willoughby's service, by her mother. his want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better knowledge of mrs. ferrars's disposition and designs. the shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother. the old well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child, was the cause of all. she would have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield,--when mrs. ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. but from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her confidence in edward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at barton, and above all to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round his finger. "i think, edward," said mrs. dashwood, as they were at breakfast the last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. some inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it--you would not be able to give them so much of your time. but (with a smile) you would be materially benefited in one particular at least--you would know where to go when you left them." "i do assure you," he replied, "that i have long thought on this point, as you think now. it has been, and is, and probably will always be a heavy misfortune to me, that i have had no necessary business to engage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like independence. but unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my friends, have made me what i am, an idle, helpless being. we never could agree in our choice of a profession. i always preferred the church, as i still do. but that was not smart enough for my family. they recommended the army. that was a great deal too smart for me. the law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers in the temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs. but i had no inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved. as for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but i was too old when the subject was first started to enter it--and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as i might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. i was therefore entered at oxford and have been properly idle ever since." "the consequence of which, i suppose, will be," said mrs. dashwood, "since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades as columella's." "they will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as unlike myself as is possible. in feeling, in action, in condition, in every thing." "come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits, edward. you are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself must be happy. but remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their education or state. know your own happiness. you want nothing but patience--or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. how much may not a few months do?" "i think," replied edward, "that i may defy many months to produce any good to me." this desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to mrs. dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on elinor's feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue. but as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by seeking silence, solitude and idleness. their means were as different as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each. elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much solicitude on her account. such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no more meritorious to marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her. the business of self-command she settled very easily;--with strong affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. that her sister's affections were calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction. without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to indulge meditation, elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough to think of edward, and of edward's behaviour, in every possible variety which the different state of her spirits at different times could produce,--with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. there were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments, conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was produced. her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross her memory, her reflection, and her fancy. from a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was roused one morning, soon after edward's leaving them, by the arrival of company. she happened to be quite alone. the closing of the little gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the door. amongst them were sir john and lady middleton and mrs. jennings, but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown to her. she was sitting near the window, and as soon as sir john perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heard at the other. "well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers. how do you like them?" "hush! they will hear you." "never mind if they do. it is only the palmers. charlotte is very pretty, i can tell you. you may see her if you look this way." as elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without taking that liberty, she begged to be excused. "where is marianne? has she run away because we are come? i see her instrument is open." "she is walking, i believe." they were now joined by mrs. jennings, who had not patience enough to wait till the door was opened before she told her story. she came hallooing to the window, "how do you do, my dear? how does mrs. dashwood do? and where are your sisters? what! all alone! you will be glad of a little company to sit with you. i have brought my other son and daughter to see you. only think of their coming so suddenly! i thought i heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that it could be them. i thought of nothing but whether it might not be colonel brandon come back again; so i said to sir john, i do think i hear a carriage; perhaps it is colonel brandon come back again"-- elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to receive the rest of the party; lady middleton introduced the two strangers; mrs. dashwood and margaret came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while mrs. jennings continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour, attended by sir john. mrs. palmer was several years younger than lady middleton, and totally unlike her in every respect. she was short and plump, had a very pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be. her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but they were much more prepossessing. she came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away. her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. he entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as long as he staid. mrs. palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth. "well! what a delightful room this is! i never saw anything so charming! only think, mama, how it is improved since i was here last! i always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to mrs. dashwood) but you have made it so charming! only look, sister, how delightful every thing is! how i should like such a house for myself! should not you, mr. palmer?" mr. palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the newspaper. "mr. palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does sometimes. it is so ridiculous!" this was quite a new idea to mrs. dashwood; she had never been used to find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with surprise at them both. mrs. jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. mrs. palmer laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every body agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise. "you may believe how glad we all were to see them," added mrs. jennings, leaning forward towards elinor, and speaking in a low voice as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different sides of the room; "but, however, i can't help wishing they had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they came all round by london upon account of some business, for you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was wrong in her situation. i wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!" mrs. palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm. "she expects to be confined in february," continued mrs. jennings. lady middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and therefore exerted herself to ask mr. palmer if there was any news in the paper. "no, none at all," he replied, and read on. "here comes marianne," cried sir john. "now, palmer, you shall see a monstrous pretty girl." he immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and ushered her in himself. mrs. jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if she had not been to allenham; and mrs. palmer laughed so heartily at the question, as to show she understood it. mr. palmer looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. mrs. palmer's eye was now caught by the drawings which hung round the room. she got up to examine them. "oh! dear, how beautiful these are! well! how delightful! do but look, mama, how sweet! i declare they are quite charming; i could look at them for ever." and then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the room. when lady middleton rose to go away, mr. palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around. "my love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing. he made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. he then made his bow, and departed with the rest. sir john had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park. mrs. dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might do as they pleased. but they had no curiosity to see how mr. and mrs. palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. they attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good. but sir john would not be satisfied--the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. lady middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. mrs. jennings and mrs. palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield. "why should they ask us?" said marianne, as soon as they were gone. "the rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or with us." "they mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said elinor, "by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. the alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. we must look for the change elsewhere." chapter as the miss dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, mrs. palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. she took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "i am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between elinor and marianne, "for it is so bad a day i was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. we must go, for the westons come to us next week you know. it was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and i knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then mr. palmer asked me if i would go with him to barton. he is so droll! he never tells me any thing! i am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, i hope." they were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "not go to town!" cried mrs. palmer, with a laugh, "i shall be quite disappointed if you do not. i could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in hanover-square. you must come, indeed. i am sure i shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till i am confined, if mrs. dashwood should not like to go into public." they thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "oh, my love," cried mrs. palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room--"you must help me to persuade the miss dashwoods to go to town this winter." her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "how horrid all this is!" said he. "such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. it makes one detest all one's acquaintance. what the devil does sir john mean by not having a billiard room in his house? how few people know what comfort is! sir john is as stupid as the weather." the rest of the company soon dropt in. "i am afraid, miss marianne," said sir john, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to allenham today." marianne looked very grave and said nothing. "oh, don't be so sly before us," said mrs. palmer; "for we know all about it, i assure you; and i admire your taste very much, for i think he is extremely handsome. we do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. not above ten miles, i dare say." "much nearer thirty," said her husband. "ah, well! there is not much difference. i never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "as vile a spot as i ever saw in my life," said mr. palmer. marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "is it very ugly?" continued mrs. palmer--"then it must be some other place that is so pretty i suppose." when they were seated in the dining room, sir john observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "my dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. why did not you ask the gilberts to come to us today?" "did not i tell you, sir john, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? they dined with us last." "you and i, sir john," said mrs. jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "then you would be very ill-bred," cried mr. palmer. "my love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "do you know that you are quite rude?" "i did not know i contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. so there i have the whip hand of you." charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. it was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than mrs. palmer. the studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "mr. palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to elinor. "he is always out of humour." elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. his temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.-- it was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. it was the desire of appearing superior to other people. the motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "oh, my dear miss dashwood," said mrs. palmer soon afterwards, "i have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. will you come and spend some time at cleveland this christmas? now, pray do,--and come while the westons are with us. you cannot think how happy i shall be! it will be quite delightful!--my love," applying to her husband, "don't you long to have the miss dashwoods come to cleveland?" "certainly," he replied, with a sneer--"i came into devonshire with no other view." "there now,"--said his lady, "you see mr. palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." they both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "but indeed you must and shall come. i am sure you will like it of all things. the westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. you cannot think what a sweet place cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for mr. palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that i never saw before, it is quite charming! but, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "how charming it will be," said charlotte, "when he is in parliament!--won't it? how i shall laugh! it will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an m.p.--but do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? he declares he won't. don't you, mr. palmer?" mr. palmer took no notice of her. "he cannot bear writing, you know," she continued--"he says it is quite shocking." "no," said he, "i never said any thing so irrational. don't palm all your abuses of languages upon me." "there now; you see how droll he is. this is always the way with him! sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world." she surprised elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like mr. palmer excessively. "certainly," said elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "well--i am so glad you do. i thought you would, he is so pleasant; and mr. palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters i can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to cleveland.--i can't imagine why you should object to it." elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. she thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, mrs. palmer might be able to give some more particular account of willoughby's general character, than could be gathered from the middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from marianne. she began by inquiring if they saw much of mr. willoughby at cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "oh dear, yes; i know him extremely well," replied mrs. palmer;--"not that i ever spoke to him, indeed; but i have seen him for ever in town. somehow or other i never happened to be staying at barton while he was at allenham. mama saw him here once before;--but i was with my uncle at weymouth. however, i dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. he is very little at combe, i believe; but if he were ever so much there, i do not think mr. palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. i know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. i am monstrous glad of it, for then i shall have her for a neighbour you know." "upon my word," replied elinor, "you know much more of the matter than i do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. i assure you i heard of it in my way through town." "my dear mrs. palmer!" "upon my honour i did.--i met colonel brandon monday morning in bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "you surprise me very much. colonel brandon tell you of it! surely you must be mistaken. to give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what i should expect colonel brandon to do." "but i do assure you it was so, for all that, and i will tell you how it happened. when we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and i said to him, 'so, colonel, there is a new family come to barton cottage, i hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to mr. willoughby of combe magna. is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in devonshire so lately.'" "and what did the colonel say?" "oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment i set it down as certain. it will be quite delightful, i declare! when is it to take place?" "mr. brandon was very well i hope?" "oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "i am flattered by his commendation. he seems an excellent man; and i think him uncommonly pleasing." "so do i.--he is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. mama says he was in love with your sister too.-- i assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "is mr. willoughby much known in your part of somersetshire?" said elinor. "oh! yes, extremely well; that is, i do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because combe magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable i assure you. nobody is more liked than mr. willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. she is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. however, i don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, i assure you; for i think you both excessively pretty, and so does mr. palmer too i am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night." mrs. palmer's information respecting willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her. "i am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued charlotte.--"and now i hope we shall always be great friends. you can't think how much i longed to see you! it is so delightful that you should live at the cottage! nothing can be like it, to be sure! and i am so glad your sister is going to be well married! i hope you will be a great deal at combe magna. it is a sweet place, by all accounts." "you have been long acquainted with colonel brandon, have not you?" "yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.-- he was a particular friend of sir john's. i believe," she added in a low voice, "he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. sir john and lady middleton wished it very much. but mama did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise sir john would have mentioned it to the colonel, and we should have been married immediately." "did not colonel brandon know of sir john's proposal to your mother before it was made? had he never owned his affection to yourself?" "oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, i dare say he would have liked it of all things. he had not seen me then above twice, for it was before i left school. however, i am much happier as i am. mr. palmer is the kind of man i like." chapter the palmers returned to cleveland the next day, and the two families at barton were again left to entertain each other. but this did not last long; elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wondering at charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at mr. palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before sir john's and mrs. jennings's active zeal in the cause of society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe. in a morning's excursion to exeter, they had met with two young ladies, whom mrs. jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her relations, and this was enough for sir john to invite them directly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at exeter were over. their engagements at exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and lady middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of sir john, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance,--whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at all. their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and mrs. jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put up with one another. as it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, lady middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day. the young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or unfashionable. their dress was very smart, their manners very civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture, and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that lady middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the park. she declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. sir john's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the miss dashwoods of the miss steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world. from such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned; elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of england, under every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. sir john wanted the whole family to walk to the park directly and look at his guests. benevolent, philanthropic man! it was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself. "do come now," said he--"pray come--you must come--i declare you shall come--you can't think how you will like them. lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! the children are all hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. and they both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and i have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more. you will be delighted with them i am sure. they have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the children. how can you be so cross as not to come? why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. you are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related." but sir john could not prevail. he could only obtain a promise of their calling at the park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the miss steeles, as he had been already boasting of the miss steeles to them. when their promised visit to the park and consequent introduction to these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person.-- their manners were particularly civil, and elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to lady middleton. with her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight. fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of the miss steeles towards her offspring were viewed therefore by lady middleton without the smallest surprise or distrust. she saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. she saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. it suggested no other surprise than that elinor and marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing. "john is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking miss steeles's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window--"he is full of monkey tricks." and soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "how playful william is!" "and here is my sweet little annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes; "and she is always so gentle and quiet--never was there such a quiet little thing!" but unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. the mother's consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the miss steeles, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. she was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the miss steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. with such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. she still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till lady middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected.-- she was carried out of the room therefore in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours. "poor little creatures!" said miss steele, as soon as they were gone. "it might have been a very sad accident." "yet i hardly know how," cried marianne, "unless it had been under totally different circumstances. but this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." "what a sweet woman lady middleton is!" said lucy steele. marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. she did her best when thus called on, by speaking of lady middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than miss lucy. "and sir john too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!" here too, miss dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat. she merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly. "and what a charming little family they have! i never saw such fine children in my life.--i declare i quite doat upon them already, and indeed i am always distractedly fond of children." "i should guess so," said elinor, with a smile, "from what i have witnessed this morning." "i have a notion," said lucy, "you think the little middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in lady middleton; and for my part, i love to see children full of life and spirits; i cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet." "i confess," replied elinor, "that while i am at barton park, i never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." a short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by miss steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, "and how do you like devonshire, miss dashwood? i suppose you were very sorry to leave sussex." in some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, elinor replied that she was. "norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added miss steele. "we have heard sir john admire it excessively," said lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister. "i think every one must admire it," replied elinor, "who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do." "and had you a great many smart beaux there? i suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, i think they are a vast addition always." "but why should you think," said lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, "that there are not as many genteel young men in devonshire as sussex?" "nay, my dear, i'm sure i don't pretend to say that there an't. i'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in exeter; but you know, how could i tell what smart beaux there might be about norland; and i was only afraid the miss dashwoods might find it dull at barton, if they had not so many as they used to have. but perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. for my part, i think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. but i can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. now there's mr. rose at exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to mr. simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen.-- i suppose your brother was quite a beau, miss dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?" "upon my word," replied elinor, "i cannot tell you, for i do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. but this i can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him." "oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have something else to do." "lord! anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux;--you will make miss dashwood believe you think of nothing else." and then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture. this specimen of the miss steeles was enough. the vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better. not so the miss steeles.--they came from exeter, well provided with admiration for the use of sir john middleton, his family, and all his relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted.-- and to be better acquainted therefore, elinor soon found was their inevitable lot, for as sir john was entirely on the side of the miss steeles, their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every day. sir john could do no more; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established friends. to do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their unreserve, by making the miss steeles acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars,--and elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to barton. "'twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said she, "and i hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. and i hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may have a friend in the corner already." elinor could not suppose that sir john would be more nice in proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for edward, than he had been with respect to marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since edward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite general attention. the letter f--had been likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with elinor. the miss steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family. but sir john did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as miss steele had in hearing it. "his name is ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret." "ferrars!" repeated miss steele; "mr. ferrars is the happy man, is he? what! your sister-in-law's brother, miss dashwood? a very agreeable young man to be sure; i know him very well." "how can you say so, anne?" cried lucy, who generally made an amendment to all her sister's assertions. "though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well." elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. "and who was this uncle? where did he live? how came they acquainted?" she wished very much to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in her life, she thought mrs. jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. the manner in which miss steele had spoken of edward, increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his disadvantage.--but her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of mr. ferrars's name by miss steele when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by sir john. chapter marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the miss steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, elinor principally attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments. lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from miss dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless. "you will think my question an odd one, i dare say," said lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage--"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, mrs. ferrars?" elinor did think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen mrs. ferrars. "indeed!" replied lucy; "i wonder at that, for i thought you must have seen her at norland sometimes. then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?" "no," returned elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of edward's mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity-- "i know nothing of her." "i am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said lucy, eyeing elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons--i wish i might venture; but however i hope you will do me the justice of believing that i do not mean to be impertinent." elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. it was broken by lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, "i cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. i am sure i would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. and i am sure i should not have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed, i should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as i am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble you. i am sorry you do not happen to know mrs. ferrars." "i am sorry i do not," said elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to you to know my opinion of her. but really i never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore i am a little surprised, i confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." "i dare say you are, and i am sure i do not at all wonder at it. but if i dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. mrs. ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time may come--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be very intimately connected." she looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "good heavens!" cried elinor, "what do you mean? are you acquainted with mr. robert ferrars? can you be?" and she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "no," replied lucy, "not to mr. robert ferrars--i never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon elinor, "to his eldest brother." what felt elinor at that moment? astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. she turned towards lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon. "you may well be surprised," continued lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for i dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and i am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. not a soul of all my relations know of it but anne, and i never should have mentioned it to you, if i had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and i really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about mrs. ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. and i do not think mr. ferrars can be displeased, when he knows i have trusted you, because i know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other miss dashwoods quite as his own sisters."--she paused. elinor for a few moments remained silent. her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude-- "may i ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "we have been engaged these four years." "four years!" "yes." elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "i did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. he was under my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while." "your uncle!" "yes; mr. pratt. did you never hear him talk of mr. pratt?" "i think i have," replied elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "he was four years with my uncle, who lives at longstaple, near plymouth. it was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. i was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but i was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as i ought to have been.-- though you do not know him so well as me, miss dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." "certainly," answered elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of edward's honour and love, and her companion's falsehood--"engaged to mr. edward ferrars!--i confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really--i beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. we cannot mean the same mr. ferrars." "we can mean no other," cried lucy, smiling. "mr. edward ferrars, the eldest son of mrs. ferrars, of park street, and brother of your sister-in-law, mrs. john dashwood, is the person i mean; you must allow that i am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." "it is strange," replied elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that i should never have heard him even mention your name." "no; considering our situation, it was not strange. our first care has been to keep the matter secret.-- you knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, that was reason enough for his not mentioning it." she was silent.--elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. poor edward! it puts him quite out of heart." then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "to prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. it does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet i think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for.--i have had it above these three years." she put it into her hands as she spoke; and when elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being edward's face. she returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "i have never been able," continued lucy, "to give him my picture in return, which i am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! but i am determined to set for it the very first opportunity." "you are quite in the right," replied elinor calmly. they then proceeded a few paces in silence. lucy spoke first. "i am sure," said she, "i have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, i dare say. i shall have no fortune, and i fancy she is an exceeding proud woman." "i certainly did not seek your confidence," said elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that i may be depended on. your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if i express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. you must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety." as she said this, she looked earnestly at lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but lucy's countenance suffered no change. "i was afraid you would think i was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. i have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but i have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as i saw you, i felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. besides in the present case, i really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about edward's mother; and i am so unfortunate, that i have not a creature whose advice i can ask. anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for i am in constant fear of her betraying me. she does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and i am sure i was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when edward's name was mentioned by sir john, lest she should out with it all. you can't think how much i go through in my mind from it altogether. i only wonder that i am alive after what i have suffered for edward's sake these last four years. every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly meet above twice a-year. i am sure i wonder my heart is not quite broke." here she took out her handkerchief; but elinor did not feel very compassionate. "sometimes." continued lucy, after wiping her eyes, "i think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." as she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "but then at other times i have not resolution enough for it.-- i cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as i know the very mention of such a thing would do. and on my own account too--so dear as he is to me--i don't think i could be equal to it. what would you advise me to do in such a case, miss dashwood? what would you do yourself?" "pardon me," replied elinor, startled by the question; "but i can give you no advice under such circumstances. your own judgment must direct you." "to be sure," continued lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor edward is so cast down by it! did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at barton? he was so miserable when he left us at longstaple, to go to you, that i was afraid you would think him quite ill." "did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?" "oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. did you think he came directly from town?" "no," replied elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of lucy's veracity; "i remember he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near plymouth." she remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names. "did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated lucy. "we did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived." "i begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.-- poor fellow!--i am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. i heard from him just before i left exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to elinor. "you know his hand, i dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual.--he was tired, i dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible." elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no longer. this picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been edward's gift; but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete. "writing to each other," said lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. yes, i have one other comfort in his picture, but poor edward has not even that. if he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. i gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?" "i did," said elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before. she was mortified, shocked, confounded. fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no farther. after sitting with them a few minutes, the miss steeles returned to the park, and elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched. [at this point in the first and second editions, volume ends.] chapter however small elinor's general dependence on lucy's veracity might be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description. what lucy had asserted to be true, therefore, elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of mr. pratt was a foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and edward's visit near plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the miss steeles as to norland and their family connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.--her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations, soon arose. had edward been intentionally deceiving her? had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel? was his engagement to lucy an engagement of the heart? no; whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at present. his affection was all her own. she could not be deceived in that. her mother, sisters, fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. he certainly loved her. what a softener of the heart was this persuasion! how much could it not tempt her to forgive! he had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. in that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. his imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. she might in time regain tranquillity; but he, what had he to look forward to? could he ever be tolerably happy with lucy steele; could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her--illiterate, artful, and selfish? the youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty. if in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself. these difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the person by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief! as these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept for him, more than for herself. supported by the conviction of having done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother and sisters. and so well was she able to answer her own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that elinor was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object of her love, and that marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house. the necessity of concealing from her mother and marianne, what had been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of elinor's distress. on the contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation of edward, which would probably flow from the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt equal to support. from their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise. she was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be. much as she had suffered from her first conversation with lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more reasons than one. she wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what lucy really felt for edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to convince lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful. that lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it was plain that edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so confessedly and evidently important. and even sir john's joking intelligence must have had some weight. but indeed, while elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof. what other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that elinor might be informed by it of lucy's superior claims on edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? she had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival's intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince lucy that her heart was unwounded. and as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure. but it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded, though lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. such a thought would never enter either sir john or lady middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. they met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy. one or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording elinor any chance of engaging lucy in private, when sir john called at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine with lady middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two miss steeles. elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of lady middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally compliant, and marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise. the young ladies went, and lady middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. the insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of engaging lucy's attention to attempt it. they quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. the card-table was then placed, and elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. they all rose up in preparation for a round game. "i am glad," said lady middleton to lucy, "you are not going to finish poor little annamaria's basket this evening; for i am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. and we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then i hope she will not much mind it." this hint was enough, lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, "indeed you are very much mistaken, lady middleton; i am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or i should have been at my filigree already. i would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, i am resolved to finish the basket after supper." "you are very good, i hope it won't hurt your eyes--will you ring the bell for some working candles? my poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, i know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though i told her it certainly would not, i am sure she depends upon having it done." lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child. lady middleton proposed a rubber of casino to the others. no one made any objection but marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "your ladyship will have the goodness to excuse me--you know i detest cards. i shall go to the piano-forte; i have not touched it since it was tuned." and without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument. lady middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that she had never made so rude a speech. "marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am," said elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and i do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte i ever heard." the remaining five were now to draw their cards. "perhaps," continued elinor, "if i should happen to cut out, i may be of some use to miss lucy steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible i think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. i should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." "indeed i shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried lucy, "for i find there is more to be done to it than i thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear annamaria after all." "oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said miss steele-- "dear little soul, how i do love her!" "you are very kind," said lady middleton to elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?" elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased lady middleton at the same time. lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. the pianoforte at which marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that miss dashwood now judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table. chapter in a firm, though cautious tone, elinor thus began. "i should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if i felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. i will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again." "thank you," cried lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for i was somehow or other afraid i had offended you by what i told you that monday." "offended me! how could you suppose so? believe me," and elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea. could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?" "and yet i do assure you," replied lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable. i felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. but i am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. if you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what i am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else i am sure." "indeed, i can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. mr. ferrars, i believe, is entirely dependent on his mother." "he has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, i could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. i have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but i love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. we must wait, it may be for many years. with almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but edward's affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of i know." "that conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your's. if the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed." lucy here looked up; but elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency. "edward's love for me," said lucy, "has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that i should be unpardonable to doubt it now. i can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on that account from the first." elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion. lucy went on. "i am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, i was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that i could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at longstaple than he used to be. i do not mean to say that i am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case i am sure i could not be deceived." "all this," thought elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us." "but what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have you none but that of waiting for mrs. ferrars's death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity?--is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth?" "if we could be certain that it would be only for a while! but mrs. ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to robert, and the idea of that, for edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures." "and for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason." lucy looked at elinor again, and was silent. "do you know mr. robert ferrars?" asked elinor. "not at all--i never saw him; but i fancy he is very unlike his brother--silly and a great coxcomb." "a great coxcomb!" repeated miss steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in marianne's music.-- "oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, i dare say." "no sister," cried lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are not great coxcombs." "i can answer for it that miss dashwood's is not," said mrs. jennings, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men i ever saw; but as for lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who she likes." "oh," cried miss steele, looking significantly round at them, "i dare say lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as miss dashwood's." elinor blushed in spite of herself. lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister. a mutual silence took place for some time. lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto-- "i will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed i am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned. i dare say you have seen enough of edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he can, and then through your interest, which i am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and i hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him norland living; which i understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while. that would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest." "i should always be happy," replied elinor, "to show any mark of my esteem and friendship for mr. ferrars; but do you not perceive that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? he is brother to mrs. john dashwood--that must be recommendation enough to her husband." "but mrs. john dashwood would not much approve of edward's going into orders." "then i rather suspect that my interest would do very little." they were again silent for many minutes. at length lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh, "i believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the engagement. we seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end. but you will not give me your advice, miss dashwood?" "no," answered elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated feelings, "on such a subject i certainly will not. you know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes." "indeed you wrong me," replied lucy, with great solemnity; "i know nobody of whose judgment i think so highly as i do of yours; and i do really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'i advise you by all means to put an end to your engagement with edward ferrars, it will be more for the happiness of both of you,' i should resolve upon doing it immediately." elinor blushed for the insincerity of edward's future wife, and replied, "this compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject had i formed one. it raises my influence much too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent person." "'tis because you are an indifferent person," said lucy, with some pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your judgment might justly have such weight with me. if you could be supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having." elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again. another pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and lucy was still the first to end it. "shall you be in town this winter, miss dashwood?" said she with all her accustomary complacency. "certainly not." "i am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened at the information, "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you there! but i dare say you will go for all that. to be sure, your brother and sister will ask you to come to them." "it will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do." "how unlucky that is! i had quite depended upon meeting you there. anne and me are to go the latter end of january to some relations who have been wanting us to visit them these several years! but i only go for the sake of seeing edward. he will be there in february, otherwise london would have no charms for me; i have not spirits for it." elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other less than they had done before; and elinor sat down to the card table with the melancholy persuasion that edward was not only without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on her side would have given, for self-interest alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary. from this time the subject was never revived by elinor, and when entered on by lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness whenever she received a letter from edward, it was treated by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself. the visit of the miss steeles at barton park was lengthened far beyond what the first invitation implied. their favour increased; they could not be spared; sir john would not hear of their going; and in spite of their numerous and long arranged engagements in exeter, in spite of the absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance. chapter though mrs. jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own. since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near portman square. towards this home, she began on the approach of january to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder misses dashwood to accompany her. elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations. the reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. mrs. jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately. "oh, lord! i am sure your mother can spare you very well, and i do beg you will favour me with your company, for i've quite set my heart upon it. don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for i shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. it will only be sending betty by the coach, and i hope i can afford that. we three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever i do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. i am sure your mother will not object to it; for i have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if i don't get one of you at least well married before i have done with you, it shall not be my fault. i shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon it." "i have a notion," said sir john, "that miss marianne would not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. it is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because miss dashwood does not wish it. so i would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are tired of barton, without saying a word to miss dashwood about it." "nay," cried mrs. jennings, "i am sure i shall be monstrous glad of miss marianne's company, whether miss dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say i, and i thought it would be more comfortable for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. but one or the other, if not both of them, i must have. lord bless me! how do you think i can live poking by myself, i who have been always used till this winter to have charlotte with me. come, miss marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if miss dashwood will change her mind by and bye, why so much the better." "i thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said marianne, with warmth: "your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness i am capable of, to be able to accept it. but my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--i feel the justice of what elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence--oh! no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. it should not, must not be a struggle." mrs. jennings repeated her assurance that mrs. dashwood could spare them perfectly well; and elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be with willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons to avoid. whatever marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to london. that marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with mrs. jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to her, as elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness. on being informed of the invitation, mrs. dashwood, persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the heart of marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon her account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all, from this separation. "i am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what i could wish. margaret and i shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. when you and the middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music! you will find margaret so improved when you come back again! i have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to any one. it is very right that you should go to town; i would have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements of london. you will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you i can have no doubt. and in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when i consider whose son he is, i cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other." "though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said elinor, "you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed." marianne's countenance sunk. "and what," said mrs. dashwood, "is my dear prudent elinor going to suggest? what formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? do let me hear a word about the expense of it." "my objection is this; though i think very well of mrs. jennings's heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us consequence." "that is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society, separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all, and you will almost always appear in public with lady middleton." "if elinor is frightened away by her dislike of mrs. jennings," said marianne, "at least it need not prevent my accepting her invitation. i have no such scruples, and i am sure i could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort." elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not think it proper that marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that mrs. jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours. to this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that edward ferrars, by lucy's account, was not to be in town before february; and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished. "i will have you both go," said mrs. dashwood; "these objections are nonsensical. you will have much pleasure in being in london, and especially in being together; and if elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family." elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her mother's dependence on the attachment of edward and herself, that the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "i like edward ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether i am ever known to them or not." mrs. dashwood smiled, and said nothing. marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her tongue. after very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully accepted. mrs. jennings received the information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. sir john was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in london, was something. even lady middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for the miss steeles, especially lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them. elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. with regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence. marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. her unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. her mother's affliction was hardly less, and elinor was the only one of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal. their departure took place in the first week in january. the middletons were to follow in about a week. the miss steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family. chapter elinor could not find herself in the carriage with mrs. jennings, and beginning a journey to london under her protection, and as her guest, without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure only a few days before! but these objections had all, with that happy ardour of youth which marianne and her mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked; and elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of marianne's situation to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. a short, a very short time however must now decide what willoughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in town. marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character which her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place. should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature--she must then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of marianne. they were three days on their journey, and marianne's behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and companionableness to mrs. jennings might be expected to be. she sat in silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. to atone for this conduct therefore, elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to mrs. jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could; and mrs. jennings on her side treated them both with all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. they reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire. the house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. it had formerly been charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect. as dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival, elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose. in a few moments marianne did the same. "i am writing home, marianne," said elinor; "had not you better defer your letter for a day or two?" "i am not going to write to my mother," replied marianne, hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. elinor said no more; it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to willoughby; and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. this conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity. marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with eager rapidity. elinor thought she could distinguish a large w in the direction; and no sooner was it complete than marianne, ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny post. this decided the matter at once. her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agitation increased as the evening drew on. she could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage. it was a great satisfaction to elinor that mrs. jennings, by being much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. the tea things were brought in, and already had marianne been disappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, elinor felt secure of its announcing willoughby's approach, and marianne, starting up, moved towards the door. every thing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, "oh, elinor, it is willoughby, indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when colonel brandon appeared. it was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately left the room. elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her regard for colonel brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. she instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards herself. "is your sister ill?" said he. elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour. he heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in london, making the usual inquiries about their journey, and the friends they had left behind. in this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both engaged elsewhere. elinor wished very much to ask whether willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in london ever since she had seen him last. "yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; i have been once or twice at delaford for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return to barton." this, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to mrs. jennings, and she was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than she had ever felt. mrs. jennings soon came in. "oh! colonel," said she, with her usual noisy cheerfulness, "i am monstrous glad to see you--sorry i could not come before--beg your pardon, but i have been forced to look about me a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since i have been at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time; and then i have had cartwright to settle with-- lord, i have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! but pray, colonel, how came you to conjure out that i should be in town today?" "i had the pleasure of hearing it at mr. palmer's, where i have been dining." "oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? how does charlotte do? i warrant you she is a fine size by this time." "mrs. palmer appeared quite well, and i am commissioned to tell you, that you will certainly see her to-morrow." "ay, to be sure, i thought as much. well, colonel, i have brought two young ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. your friend, miss marianne, too--which you will not be sorry to hear. i do not know what you and mr. willoughby will do between you about her. ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. well! i was young once, but i never was very handsome--worse luck for me. however, i got a very good husband, and i don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years and better. but colonel, where have you been to since we parted? and how does your business go on? come, come, let's have no secrets among friends." he replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but without satisfying her in any. elinor now began to make the tea, and marianne was obliged to appear again. after her entrance, colonel brandon became more thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and mrs. jennings could not prevail on him to stay long. no other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed. marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks. the disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen that day. they had not long finished their breakfast before mrs. palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or the miss dashwoods again. so surprised at their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they had not come! "mr. palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "what do you think he said when he heard of your coming with mama? i forget what it was now, but it was something so droll!" after an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat, or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaintance on mrs. jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on mrs. palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to which mrs. jennings and elinor readily consented, as having likewise some purchases to make themselves; and marianne, though declining it at first was induced to go likewise. wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. in bond street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all that interested and occupied the others. restless and dissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of mrs. palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision. it was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had they entered the house than marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance, which declared that no willoughby had been there. "has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she to the footman who then entered with the parcels. she was answered in the negative. "are you quite sure of it?" she replied. "are you certain that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?" the man replied that none had. "how very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she turned away to the window. "how odd, indeed!" repeated elinor within herself, regarding her sister with uneasiness. "if she had not known him to be in town she would not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to combe magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write! oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! i long to inquire; and how will my interference be borne." she determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious enquiry into the affair. mrs. palmer and two elderly ladies of mrs. jennings's intimate acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them. the former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements; and elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others. marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to her than to elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment. she sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap. chapter "if this open weather holds much longer," said mrs. jennings, when they met at breakfast the following morning, "sir john will not like leaving barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's pleasure. poor souls! i always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much to heart." "that is true," cried marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the window as she spoke, to examine the day. "i had not thought of that. this weather will keep many sportsmen in the country." it was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it. "it is charming weather for them indeed," she continued, as she sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. "how much they must enjoy it! but" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be expected to last long. at this time of the year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity. in another day or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight!" "at any rate," said elinor, wishing to prevent mrs. jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "i dare say we shall have sir john and lady middleton in town by the end of next week." "ay, my dear, i'll warrant you we do. mary always has her own way." "and now," silently conjectured elinor, "she will write to combe by this day's post." but if she did, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. whatever the truth of it might be, and far as elinor was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while she saw marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable herself. and marianne was in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of a frost. the morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of mrs. jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air. "don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, elinor? there seems to me a very decided difference. i can hardly keep my hands warm even in my muff. it was not so yesterday, i think. the clouds seem parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon." elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but marianne persevered, and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost. the miss dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with mrs. jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. every thing in her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to lady middleton's regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had expected, elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her. colonel brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to look at marianne and talk to elinor, who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much concern his continued regard for her sister. she feared it was a strengthening regard. it grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at barton. about a week after their arrival, it became certain that willoughby was also arrived. his card was on the table when they came in from the morning's drive. "good god!" cried marianne, "he has been here while we were out." elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in london, now ventured to say, "depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow." but marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on mrs. jennings's entrance, escaped with the precious card. this event, while it raised the spirits of elinor, restored to those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. from this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. she insisted on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out. elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in berkeley street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her, that willoughby had paid no second visit there. a note was just then brought in, and laid on the table. "for me!" cried marianne, stepping hastily forward. "no, ma'am, for my mistress." but marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up. "it is indeed for mrs. jennings; how provoking!" "you are expecting a letter, then?" said elinor, unable to be longer silent. "yes, a little--not much." after a short pause. "you have no confidence in me, marianne." "nay, elinor, this reproach from you--you who have confidence in no one!" "me!" returned elinor in some confusion; "indeed, marianne, i have nothing to tell." "nor i," answered marianne with energy, "our situations then are alike. we have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not communicate, and i, because i conceal nothing." elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press for greater openness in marianne. mrs. jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it aloud. it was from lady middleton, announcing their arrival in conduit street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and cousins the following evening. business on sir john's part, and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in berkeley street. the invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was in common civility to mrs. jennings, that they should both attend her on such a visit, elinor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence. elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town, sir john had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball. this was an affair, however, of which lady middleton did not approve. in the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in london, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it known that lady middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation. mr. and mrs. palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance. he looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to mrs. jennings from the other side of the room. marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it was enough--he was not there--and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. after they had been assembled about an hour, mr. palmer sauntered towards the miss dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, though colonel brandon had been first informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they were to come. "i thought you were both in devonshire," said he. "did you?" replied elinor. "when do you go back again?" "i do not know." and thus ended their discourse. never had marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. she complained of it as they returned to berkeley street. "aye, aye," said mrs. jennings, "we know the reason of all that very well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited." "invited!" cried marianne. "so my daughter middleton told me, for it seems sir john met him somewhere in the street this morning." marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. impatient in this situation to be doing something that might lead to her sister's relief, elinor resolved to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health of marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that marianne was again writing to willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other person. about the middle of the day, mrs. jennings went out by herself on business, and elinor began her letter directly, while marianne, too restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions of willoughby's inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from marianne an account of her real situation with respect to him. her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and colonel brandon was announced. marianne, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it. he looked more than usually grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding miss dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word. elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. it was not the first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before, beginning with the observation of "your sister looks unwell to-day," or "your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about her. after a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant? he tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's engagement to mr. willoughby is very generally known." "it cannot be generally known," returned elinor, "for her own family do not know it." he looked surprised and said, "i beg your pardon, i am afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but i had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of." "how can that be? by whom can you have heard it mentioned?" "by many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate, mrs. jennings, mrs. palmer, and the middletons. but still i might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if i had not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to mr. willoughby in your sister's writing. i came to inquire, but i was convinced before i could ask the question. is every thing finally settled? is it impossible to-? but i have no right, and i could have no chance of succeeding. excuse me, miss dashwood. i believe i have been wrong in saying so much, but i hardly know what to do, and on your prudence i have the strongest dependence. tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains." these words, which conveyed to elinor a direct avowal of his love for her sister, affected her very much. she was not immediately able to say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. the real state of things between willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too little. yet as she was convinced that marianne's affection for willoughby, could leave no hope of colonel brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. she acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear. he listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "to your sister i wish all imaginable happiness; to willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her,"--took leave, and went away. elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of colonel brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm it. chapter nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make elinor regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for willoughby neither came nor wrote. they were engaged about the end of that time to attend lady middleton to a party, from which mrs. jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party, marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. she sat by the drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of lady middleton's arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and when at last they were told that lady middleton waited for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected. they arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferably hot. when they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. after some time spent in saying little or doing less, lady middleton sat down to cassino, and as marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table. they had not remained in this manner long, before elinor perceived willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. she soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. elinor turned involuntarily to marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. at that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her. "good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there--he is there--oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot i speak to him?" "pray, pray be composed," cried elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. perhaps he has not observed you yet." this however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of marianne, it was beyond her wish. she sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. at last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. he approached, and addressing himself rather to elinor than marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after mrs. dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. but the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "good god! willoughby, what is the meaning of this? have you not received my letters? will you not shake hands with me?" he could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. during all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. after a moment's pause, he spoke with calmness. "i did myself the honour of calling in berkeley street last tuesday, and very much regretted that i was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and mrs. jennings at home. my card was not lost, i hope." "but have you not received my notes?" cried marianne in the wildest anxiety. "here is some mistake i am sure--some dreadful mistake. what can be the meaning of it? tell me, willoughby; for heaven's sake tell me, what is the matter?" he made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "yes, i had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "go to him, elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. tell him i must see him again--must speak to him instantly.-- i cannot rest--i shall not have a moment's peace till this is explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other.-- oh go to him this moment." "how can that be done? no, my dearest marianne, you must wait. this is not the place for explanations. wait only till tomorrow." with difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. in a short time elinor saw willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. she instantly begged her sister would entreat lady middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. lady middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon the carriage could be found. scarcely a word was spoken during their return to berkeley street. marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as mrs. jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. she was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of mrs. jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past. that some kind of engagement had subsisted between willoughby and marianne she could not doubt, and that willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however marianne might still feed her own wishes, she could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt. as for marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could esteem edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. but every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of marianne in a final separation from willoughby--in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. chapter before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in january, marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. in this situation, elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "marianne, may i ask-?" "no, elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." the sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. it was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to willoughby. elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world. in such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body. at breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage mrs. jennings's notice entirely to herself. as this was a favourite meal with mrs. jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape mrs. jennings's notice. that good lady, however, saw only that marianne had received a letter from willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. of elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as marianne disappeared, she said, "upon my word, i never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! my girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for miss marianne, she is quite an altered creature. i hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. pray, when are they to be married?" elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "and have you really, ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to mr. willoughby? i thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and i must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. i do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married." "for shame, for shame, miss dashwood! how can you talk so? don't we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? did not i see them together in devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not i know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? come, come, this won't do. because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, i can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. i tell every body of it and so does charlotte." "indeed, ma'am," said elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now." mrs. jennings laughed again, but elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others laying by her. elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than marianne's. the latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into elinor's hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to willoughby's letter, read as follows: "bond street, january. "my dear madam, "i have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which i beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. i am much concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though i am quite at a loss to discover in what point i could be so unfortunate as to offend you, i entreat your forgiveness of what i can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. i shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. my esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if i have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than i felt, or meant to express, i shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. that i should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, i believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. it is with great regret that i obey your commands in returning the letters with which i have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed on me. "i am, dear madam, "your most obedient "humble servant, "john willoughby." with what indignation such a letter as this must be read by miss dashwood, may be imagined. though aware, before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever--a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy. she paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important. in her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the very different mind of a very different person, who had no other connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing that passed, elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive mrs. jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one. determined not to quit marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending mrs. jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed. mrs. jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to marianne, whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness. a glass of wine, which elinor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her kindness, by saying, "poor elinor! how unhappy i make you!" "i only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing i could do, which might be of comfort to you." this, as every thing else would have been, was too much for marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "oh! elinor, i am miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs. elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence. "exert yourself, dear marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill yourself and all who love you. think of your mother; think of her misery while you suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself." "i cannot, i cannot," cried marianne; "leave me, leave me, if i distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so. oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! happy, happy elinor, you cannot have an idea of what i suffer." "do you call me happy, marianne? ah! if you knew!--and can you believe me to be so, while i see you so wretched!" "forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "i know you feel for me; i know what a heart you have; but yet you are--you must be happy; edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away such happiness as that?" "many, many circumstances," said elinor, solemnly. "no, no, no," cried marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. you can have no grief." "i can have no pleasure while i see you in this state." "and you will never see me otherwise. mine is a misery which nothing can do away." "you must not talk so, marianne. have you no comforts? no friends? is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period--if your engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it. every additional day of unhappy confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful." "engagement!" cried marianne, "there has been no engagement." "no engagement!" "no, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. he has broken no faith with me." "but he told you that he loved you." "yes--no--never absolutely. it was every day implied, but never professedly declared. sometimes i thought it had been--but it never was." "yet you wrote to him?"-- "yes--could that be wrong after all that had passed?-- but i cannot talk." elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all. the first, which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town, was to this effect. berkeley street, january. "how surprised you will be, willoughby, on receiving this; and i think you will feel something more than surprise, when you know that i am in town. an opportunity of coming hither, though with mrs. jennings, was a temptation we could not resist. i wish you may receive this in time to come here to-night, but i will not depend on it. at any rate i shall expect you to-morrow. for the present, adieu. "m.d." her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the middletons', was in these words:-- "i cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a note which i sent you above a week ago. i have been expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day. pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. you had better come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. we were last night at lady middleton's, where there was a dance. i have been told that you were asked to be of the party. but could it be so? you must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. but i will not suppose this possible, and i hope very soon to receive your personal assurance of its being otherwise. "m.d." the contents of her last note to him were these:-- "what am i to imagine, willoughby, by your behaviour last night? again i demand an explanation of it. i was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy at barton appeared to me to justify. i was repulsed indeed! i have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though i have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, i am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. you have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and i shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. it would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill of you; but if i am to do it, if i am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. my feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; i wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to what i now suffer. if your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession. "m.d." that such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so answered, elinor, for willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe. but her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when marianne, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation. "i felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other." "i can believe it," said elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel the same." "he did feel the same, elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it. i know he did. whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can have done it), i was once as dear to him as my own soul could wish. this lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication. had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that moment! have you forgot the last evening of our being together at barton? the morning that we parted too! when he told me that it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can i ever forget his distress?" for a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone, "elinor, i have been cruelly used; but not by willoughby." "dearest marianne, who but himself? by whom can he have been instigated?" "by all the world, rather than by his own heart. i could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. this woman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but your own dear self, mama, and edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom i would not rather suspect of evil than willoughby, whose heart i know so well?" elinor would not contend, and only replied, "whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. it is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence." "no, no," cried marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. i care not who knows that i am wretched. the triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world. elinor, elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return mortification--but i cannot. i must feel--i must be wretched--and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can." "but for my mother's sake and mine--" "i would do more than for my own. but to appear happy when i am so miserable--oh! who can require it?" again they were both silent. elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other; and marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed-- "it is too much! oh, willoughby, willoughby, could this be yours! cruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you. elinor, nothing can. whatever he might have heard against me--ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself? 'the lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,) which you so obligingly bestowed on me'--that is unpardonable. willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? oh, barbarously insolent!--elinor, can he be justified?" "no, marianne, in no possible way." "and yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--who is she?--who can she be?--whom did i ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his female acquaintance?--oh! no one, no one--he talked to me only of myself." another pause ensued; marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus. "elinor, i must go home. i must go and comfort mama. can not we be gone to-morrow?" "to-morrow, marianne!" "yes, why should i stay here? i came only for willoughby's sake--and now who cares for me? who regards me?" "it would be impossible to go to-morrow. we owe mrs. jennings much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that." "well then, another day or two, perhaps; but i cannot stay here long, i cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. the middletons and palmers--how am i to bear their pity? the pity of such a woman as lady middleton! oh, what would he say to that!" elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till mrs. jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless. chapter mrs. jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern. "how do you do my dear?"--said she in a voice of great compassion to marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. "how is she, miss dashwood?--poor thing! she looks very bad.-- no wonder. ay, it is but too true. he is to be married very soon--a good-for-nothing fellow! i have no patience with him. mrs. taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of miss grey herself, else i am sure i should not have believed it; and i was almost ready to sink as it was. well, said i, all i can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and i wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. and so i shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. i have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever i meet him again, i will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. but there is one comfort, my dear miss marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. well, poor thing! i won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. the parrys and sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her." she then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise. marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. elinor even advised her against it. but "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it. when there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half mrs. jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her. elinor, who did justice to mrs. jennings's kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. their good friend saw that marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. she treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. had not elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by mrs. jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. as soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on marianne, she could stay no longer. with a hasty exclamation of misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room. "poor soul!" cried mrs. jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! and i declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! and the dried cherries too! lord! nothing seems to do her any good. i am sure if i knew of any thing she would like, i would send all over the town for it. well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! but when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, lord bless you! they care no more about such things!--" "the lady then--miss grey i think you called her--is very rich?" "fifty thousand pounds, my dear. did you ever see her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome. i remember her aunt very well, biddy henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. but the family are all rich together. fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. no wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! well, it don't signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? i warrant you, miss marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. but that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age." "do you know what kind of a girl miss grey is? is she said to be amiable?" "i never heard any harm of her; indeed i hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that mrs. taylor did say this morning, that one day miss walker hinted to her, that she believed mr. and mrs. ellison would not be sorry to have miss grey married, for she and mrs. ellison could never agree."-- "and who are the ellisons?" "her guardians, my dear. but now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made!--what now," after pausing a moment--"your poor sister is gone to her own room, i suppose, to moan by herself. is there nothing one can get to comfort her? poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. what shall we play at? she hates whist i know; but is there no round game she cares for?" "dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. marianne, i dare say, will not leave her room again this evening. i shall persuade her if i can to go early to bed, for i am sure she wants rest." "aye, i believe that will be best for her. let her name her own supper, and go to bed. lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter i suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. and so the letter that came today finished it! poor soul! i am sure if i had had a notion of it, i would not have joked her about it for all my money. but then you know, how should i guess such a thing? i made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. lord! how concerned sir john and my daughters will be when they hear it! if i had my senses about me i might have called in conduit street in my way home, and told them of it. but i shall see them tomorrow." "it would be unnecessary i am sure, for you to caution mrs. palmer and sir john against ever naming mr. willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "oh! lord! yes, that i do indeed. it must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, i am sure i would not mention a word about it to her for the world. you saw i did not all dinner time. no more would sir john, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if i give them a hint, as i certainly will. for my part, i think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. and what does talking ever do you know?" "in this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. i must do this justice to mr. willoughby--he has broken no positive engagement with my sister." "law, my dear! don't pretend to defend him. no positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over allenham house, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!" elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for willoughby's; since, though marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. after a short silence on both sides, mrs. jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for colonel brandon. he will have her at last; aye, that he will. mind me, now, if they an't married by mid-summer. lord! how he'll chuckle over this news! i hope he will come tonight. it will be all to one a better match for your sister. two thousand a year without debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, i had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? delaford is a nice place, i can tell you; exactly what i call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! lord! how charlotte and i did stuff the only time we were there! then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. oh! 'tis a nice place! a butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. to my fancy, a thousand times prettier than barton park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. well, i shall spirit up the colonel as soon as i can. one shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. if we can but put willoughby out of her head!" "ay, if we can do that, ma'am," said elinor, "we shall do very well with or without colonel brandon." and then rising, she went away to join marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till elinor's entrance, had been her only light. "you had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received from her. "i will leave you," said elinor, "if you will go to bed." but this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do. her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her. in the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by mrs. jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand. "my dear," said she, entering, "i have just recollected that i have some of the finest old constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so i have brought a glass of it for your sister. my poor husband! how fond he was of it! whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the world. do take it to your sister." "dear ma'am," replied elinor, smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! but i have just left marianne in bed, and, i hope, almost asleep; and as i think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, i will drink the wine myself." mrs. jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister. colonel brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for marianne, elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. mrs. jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where elinor presided, and whispered-- "the colonel looks as grave as ever you see. he knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear." he shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her sister. "marianne is not well," said she. "she has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed." "perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what i heard this morning may be--there may be more truth in it than i could believe possible at first." "what did you hear?" "that a gentleman, whom i had reason to think--in short, that a man, whom i knew to be engaged--but how shall i tell you? if you know it already, as surely you must, i may be spared." "you mean," answered elinor, with forced calmness, "mr. willoughby's marriage with miss grey. yes, we do know it all. this seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us. mr. willoughby is unfathomable! where did you hear it?" "in a stationer's shop in pall mall, where i had business. two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. the name of willoughby, john willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing was now finally settled respecting his marriage with miss grey--it was no longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters. one thing, especially, i remember, because it served to identify the man still more:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to combe magna, his seat in somersetshire. my astonishment!--but it would be impossible to describe what i felt. the communicative lady i learnt, on inquiry, for i stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a mrs. ellison, and that, as i have been since informed, is the name of miss grey's guardian." "it is. but have you likewise heard that miss grey has fifty thousand pounds? in that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation." "it may be so; but willoughby is capable--at least i think"--he stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "and your sister--how did she--" "her sufferings have been very severe. i have only to hope that they may be proportionately short. it has been, it is a most cruel affliction. till yesterday, i believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps--but i am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her. he has been very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him." "ah!" said colonel brandon, "there is, indeed! but your sister does not--i think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?" "you know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she could." he made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. mrs. jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of miss dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on colonel brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual. chapter from a night of more sleep than she had expected, marianne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had closed her eyes. elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on marianne's, as before. sometimes she could believe willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. at one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third could resist it with energy. in one thing, however, she was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of mrs. jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. her heart was hardened against the belief of mrs. jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion. "no, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel. her kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. all that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because i supply it." elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. she expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself. thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of mrs. jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though mrs. jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill. with a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying, "now, my dear, i bring you something that i am sure will do you good." marianne heard enough. in one moment her imagination placed before her a letter from willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. the work of one moment was destroyed by the next. the hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered. the cruelty of mrs. jennings no language, within her reach in her moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate violence--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the letter of comfort. but the letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. willoughby filled every page. her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by elinor's application, to intreat from marianne greater openness towards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it. all her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken confidence in willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for marianne to be in london or at barton, offered no counsel of her own except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge. mrs. jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy till the middletons and palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning. elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by marianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat her directions for the future; while marianne, who came into the drawing-room on mrs. jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table where elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect on her mother. in this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door. "who can this be?" cried elinor. "so early too! i thought we had been safe." marianne moved to the window-- "it is colonel brandon!" said she, with vexation. "we are never safe from him." "he will not come in, as mrs. jennings is from home." "i will not trust to that," retreating to her own room. "a man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others." the event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice and error; for colonel brandon did come in; and elinor, who was convinced that solicitude for marianne brought him thither, and who saw that solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly. "i met mrs. jennings in bond street," said he, after the first salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and i was the more easily encouraged, because i thought it probable that i might find you alone, which i was very desirous of doing. my object--my wish--my sole wish in desiring it--i hope, i believe it is--is to be a means of giving comfort;--no, i must not say comfort--not present comfort--but conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind. my regard for her, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances which nothing but a very sincere regard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--i think i am justified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that i am right, is there not some reason to fear i may be wrong?" he stopped. "i understand you," said elinor. "you have something to tell me of mr. willoughby, that will open his character farther. your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn marianne. my gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that end, and hers must be gained by it in time. pray, pray let me hear it." "you shall; and, to be brief, when i quitted barton last october,--but this will give you no idea--i must go farther back. you will find me a very awkward narrator, miss dashwood; i hardly know where to begin. a short account of myself, i believe, will be necessary, and it shall be a short one. on such a subject," sighing heavily, "can i have little temptation to be diffuse." he stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went on. "you have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be supposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation between us one evening at barton park--it was the evening of a dance--in which i alluded to a lady i had once known, as resembling, in some measure, your sister marianne." "indeed," answered elinor, "i have not forgotten it." he looked pleased by this remembrance, and added, "if i am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well in mind as person. the same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits. this lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. our ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows and friends. i cannot remember the time when i did not love eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of having ever felt. hers, for me, was, i believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to mr. willoughby and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. at seventeen she was lost to me for ever. she was married--married against her inclination to my brother. her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. and this, i fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian. my brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. i had hoped that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing--but how blindly i relate! i have never told you how this was brought on. we were within a few hours of eloping together for scotland. the treachery, or the folly, of my cousin's maid betrayed us. i was banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father's point was gained. i had depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one--but had her marriage been happy, so young as i then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at least i should not have now to lament it. this however was not the case. my brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. the consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as mrs. brandon's, was but too natural. she resigned herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. but can we wonder that, with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their marriage, and i was with my regiment in the east indies) she should fall? had i remained in england, perhaps--but i meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange. the shock which her marriage had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling weight--was nothing to what i felt when i heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce. it was that which threw this gloom,--even now the recollection of what i suffered--" he could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about the room. elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his distress, could not speak. he saw her concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. a few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure. "it was nearly three years after this unhappy period before i returned to england. my first care, when i did arrive, was of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. i could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and i learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. he imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. at last, however, and after i had been six months in england, i did find her. regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. so altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could i believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom i had once doted. what i endured in so beholding her--but i have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--i have pained you too much already. that she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was my greatest comfort. life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was given. i saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; i visited her every day during the rest of her short life: i was with her in her last moments." again he stopped to recover himself; and elinor spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend. "your sister, i hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance i have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other be. but to what does all this lead? i seem to have been distressing you for nothing. ah! miss dashwood--a subject such as this--untouched for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at all! i will be more collected--more concise. she left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about three years old. she loved the child, and had always kept it with her. it was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would i have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but i had no family, no home; and my little eliza was therefore placed at school. i saw her there whenever i could, and after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she visited me at delaford. i called her a distant relation; but i am well aware that i have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. it is now three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that i removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very respectable woman, residing in dorsetshire, who had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years i had every reason to be pleased with her situation. but last february, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. i had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go to bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there for his health. i knew him to be a very good sort of man, and i thought well of his daughter--better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. he, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, i believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. in short, i could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. what i thought, what i feared, may be imagined; and what i suffered too." "good heavens!" cried elinor, "could it be--could willoughby!"-- "the first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a letter from herself, last october. it was forwarded to me from delaford, and i received it on the very morning of our intended party to whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving barton so suddenly, which i am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which i believe gave offence to some. little did mr. willoughby imagine, i suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that i was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but had he known it, what would it have availed? would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? no, he had already done that, which no man who can feel for another would do. he had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! he had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her." "this is beyond every thing!" exclaimed elinor. "his character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. knowing all this, as i have now known it many weeks, guess what i must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what i must have felt for all your sakes. when i came to you last week and found you alone, i came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it was known. my behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. to suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister--but what could i do? i had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes i thought your sister's influence might yet reclaim him. but now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless will turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. surely this comparison must have its use with her. she will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. they proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. on the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what i have told you. you must know best what will be its effect; but had i not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, i would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "i have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. now, though at first she will suffer much, i am sure she will soon become easier. have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen mr. willoughby since you left him at barton?" "yes," he replied gravely, "once i have. one meeting was unavoidable." elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "what? have you met him to--" "i could meet him no other way. eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, i to punish his conduct. we returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "such," said colonel brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have i discharged my trust!" "is she still in town?" "no; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for i found her near her delivery, i removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. chapter when the particulars of this conversation were repeated by miss dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. not that marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of willoughby, and seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. but though this behaviour assured elinor that the conviction of this guilt was carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding colonel brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. she felt the loss of willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of miss williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might once have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them. to give the feelings or the language of mrs. dashwood on receiving and answering elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than marianne's, and an indignation even greater than elinor's. long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. bad indeed must the nature of marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which she could wish her not to indulge! against the interest of her own individual comfort, mrs. dashwood had determined that it would be better for marianne to be any where, at that time, than at barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. she recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to mrs. jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. a variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her. from all danger of seeing willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of london than even in the retirement of barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at allenham on his marriage, which mrs. dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one. she had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the middle of february, and she judged it right that they should sometimes see their brother. marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her longer continuance in london it deprived her of the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment's rest. but it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and elinor, on the other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better for marianne than an immediate return into devonshire. her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing willoughby's name mentioned, was not thrown away. marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither mrs. jennings, nor sir john, nor even mrs. palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all. sir john, could not have thought it possible. "a man of whom he had always had such reason to think well! such a good-natured fellow! he did not believe there was a bolder rider in england! it was an unaccountable business. he wished him at the devil with all his heart. he would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! no, not if it were to be by the side of barton covert, and they were kept watching for two hours together. such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! it was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of folly's puppies! and this was the end of it!" mrs. palmer, in her way, was equally angry. "she was determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at all. she wished with all her heart combe magna was not so near cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was." the rest of mrs. palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them to elinor. she could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage was building, by what painter mr. willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse miss grey's clothes might be seen. the calm and polite unconcern of lady middleton on the occasion was a happy relief to elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others. it was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no interest in one person at least among their circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was one who would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health. every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature. lady middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "it is very shocking, indeed!" and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able not only to see the miss dashwoods from the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather against the opinion of sir john) that as mrs. willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married. colonel brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome to miss dashwood. he had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. his chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye with which marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him. these assured him that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and these gave elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but mrs. jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of midsummer, they would not be married till michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. the good understanding between the colonel and miss dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to her; and mrs. jennings had, for some time ceased to think at all of mrs. ferrars. early in february, within a fortnight from the receipt of willoughby's letter, elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was married. she had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning. she received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event. the willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before. about this time the two miss steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's house in bartlett's buildings, holburn, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in conduit and berkeley streets; and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality. elinor only was sorry to see them. their presence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering delight of lucy in finding her still in town. "i should have been quite disappointed if i had not found you here still," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "but i always thought i should. i was almost sure you would not leave london yet awhile; though you told me, you know, at barton, that you should not stay above a month. but i thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. it would have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came. and now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone. i am amazingly glad you did not keep to your word." elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command to make it appear that she did not. "well, my dear," said mrs. jennings, "and how did you travel?" "not in the stage, i assure you," replied miss steele, with quick exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. dr. davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did." "oh, oh!" cried mrs. jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the doctor is a single man, i warrant you." "there now," said miss steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs at me so about the doctor, and i cannot think why. my cousins say they are sure i have made a conquest; but for my part i declare i never think about him from one hour's end to another. 'lord! here comes your beau, nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. my beau, indeed! said i--i cannot think who you mean. the doctor is no beau of mine." "aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the doctor is the man, i see." "no, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and i beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of." mrs. jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would not, and miss steele was made completely happy. "i suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, miss dashwood, when they come to town," said lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge. "no, i do not think we shall." "oh, yes, i dare say you will." elinor would not humour her by farther opposition. "what a charming thing it is that mrs. dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!" "long a time, indeed!" interposed mrs. jennings. "why, their visit is but just begun!" lucy was silenced. "i am sorry we cannot see your sister, miss dashwood," said miss steele. "i am sorry she is not well--" for marianne had left the room on their arrival. "you are very good. my sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation." "oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as lucy and me!--i think she might see us; and i am sure we would not speak a word." elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. "oh, if that's all," cried miss steele, "we can just as well go and see her." elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by lucy's sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other. chapter after some opposition, marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and consented to go out with her and mrs. jennings one morning for half an hour. she expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to gray's in sackville street, where elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother. when they stopped at the door, mrs. jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at gray's, it was resolved, that while her young friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return for them. on ascending the stairs, the miss dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. all that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. but the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. he was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion. marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in mr. gray's shop, as in her own bedroom. at last the affair was decided. the ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the miss dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference. elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side. she turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother. their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very creditable appearance in mr. gray's shop. john dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive. elinor found that he and fanny had been in town two days. "i wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take harry to see the wild beasts at exeter exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with mrs. ferrars. harry was vastly pleased. this morning i had fully intended to call on you, if i could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town. i am come here to bespeak fanny a seal. but tomorrow i think i shall certainly be able to call in berkeley street, and be introduced to your friend mrs. jennings. i understand she is a woman of very good fortune. and the middletons too, you must introduce me to them. as my mother-in-law's relations, i shall be happy to show them every respect. they are excellent neighbours to you in the country, i understand." "excellent indeed. their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than i can express." "i am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. but so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. and so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing! edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. it was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, i assure you." elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of mrs. jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door. mr. dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to mrs. jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave. his visit was duly paid. he came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where." mrs. jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on mrs. john dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. his manners to them, though calm, were perfectly kind; to mrs. jennings, most attentively civil; and on colonel brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to him. after staying with them half an hour, he asked elinor to walk with him to conduit street, and introduce him to sir john and lady middleton. the weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. as soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began. "who is colonel brandon? is he a man of fortune?" "yes; he has very good property in dorsetshire." "i am glad of it. he seems a most gentlemanlike man; and i think, elinor, i may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life." "me, brother! what do you mean?" "he likes you. i observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. what is the amount of his fortune?" "i believe about two thousand a year." "two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "elinor, i wish with all my heart it were twice as much, for your sake." "indeed i believe you," replied elinor; "but i am very sure that colonel brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying me." "you are mistaken, elinor; you are very much mistaken. a very little trouble on your side secures him. perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it. but some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. and there can be no reason why you should not try for him. it is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have too much sense not to see all that. colonel brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family. it is a match that must give universal satisfaction. in short, it is a kind of thing that"--lowering his voice to an important whisper--"will be exceedingly welcome to all parties." recollecting himself, however, he added, "that is, i mean to say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, i assure you. and her mother too, mrs. ferrars, a very good-natured woman, i am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day." elinor would not vouchsafe any answer. "it would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something droll, if fanny should have a brother and i a sister settling at the same time. and yet it is not very unlikely." "is mr. edward ferrars," said elinor, with resolution, "going to be married?" "it is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. he has a most excellent mother. mrs. ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes place. the lady is the hon. miss morton, only daughter of the late lord morton, with thirty thousand pounds. a very desirable connection on both sides, and i have not a doubt of its taking place in time. a thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for ever; but mrs. ferrars has a noble spirit. to give you another instance of her liberality:--the other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. and extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here." he paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say, "your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable; but your income is a large one." "not so large, i dare say, as many people suppose. i do not mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and i hope will in time be better. the enclosure of norland common, now carrying on, is a most serious drain. and then i have made a little purchase within this half year; east kingham farm, you must remember the place, where old gibson used to live. the land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that i felt it my duty to buy it. i could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. a man must pay for his convenience; and it has cost me a vast deal of money." "more than you think it really and intrinsically worth." "why, i hope not that. i might have sold it again, the next day, for more than i gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, i might have been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if i had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's hands, i must have sold out to very great loss." elinor could only smile. "other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to norland. our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the stanhill effects that remained at norland (and very valuable they were) to your mother. far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. you may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable mrs. ferrars's kindness is." "certainly," said elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, i hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances." "another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; "but however there is still a great deal to be done. there is not a stone laid of fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the flower-garden marked out." "where is the green-house to be?" "upon the knoll behind the house. the old walnut trees are all come down to make room for it. it will be a very fine object from many parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty. we have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the brow." elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very thankful that marianne was not present, to share the provocation. having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his next visit at gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to congratulate elinor on having such a friend as mrs. jennings. "she seems a most valuable woman indeed--her house, her style of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially advantageous.--her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be forgotten.-- she must have a great deal to leave." "nothing at all, i should rather suppose; for she has only her jointure, which will descend to her children." "but it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. few people of common prudence will do that; and whatever she saves, she will be able to dispose of." "and do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her daughters, than to us?" "her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore i cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises." "but she raises none in those most concerned. indeed, brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far." "why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have little, have very little in their power. but, my dear elinor, what is the matter with marianne?-- she looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and is grown quite thin. is she ill?" "she is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several weeks." "i am sorry for that. at her time of life, any thing of an illness destroys the bloom for ever! hers has been a very short one! she was as handsome a girl last september, as i ever saw; and as likely to attract the man. there was something in her style of beauty, to please them particularly. i remember fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of you, but so it happened to strike her. she will be mistaken, however. i question whether marianne now, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and i am very much deceived if you do not do better. dorsetshire! i know very little of dorsetshire; but, my dear elinor, i shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and i think i can answer for your having fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors." elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood of her marrying colonel brandon; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. he had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from colonel brandon, or a legacy from mrs. jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect. they were lucky enough to find lady middleton at home, and sir john came in before their visit ended. abundance of civilities passed on all sides. sir john was ready to like anybody, and though mr. dashwood did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow: while lady middleton saw enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and mr. dashwood went away delighted with both. "i shall have a charming account to carry to fanny," said he, as he walked back with his sister. "lady middleton is really a most elegant woman! such a woman as i am sure fanny will be glad to know. and mrs. jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as her daughter. your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting her, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very naturally; for we only knew that mrs. jennings was the widow of a man who had got all his money in a low way; and fanny and mrs. ferrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were such kind of women as fanny would like to associate with. but now i can carry her a most satisfactory account of both." chapter mrs. john dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment, that she waited the very next day both on mrs. jennings and her daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy her notice; and as for lady middleton, she found her one of the most charming women in the world! lady middleton was equally pleased with mrs. dashwood. there was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding. the same manners, however, which recommended mrs. john dashwood to the good opinion of lady middleton did not suit the fancy of mrs. jennings, and to her she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters without any affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on berkeley street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence. elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask, whether edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced fanny voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with miss morton was resolved on, or till her husband's expectations on colonel brandon were answered; because she believed them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. the intelligence however, which she would not give, soon flowed from another quarter. lucy came very shortly to claim elinor's compassion on being unable to see edward, though he had arrived in town with mr. and mrs. dashwood. he dared not come to bartlett's buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write. edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short time, by twice calling in berkeley street. twice was his card found on the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. elinor was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him. the dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the middletons, that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in harley street, where they had taken a very good house for three months. their sisters and mrs. jennings were invited likewise, and john dashwood was careful to secure colonel brandon, who, always glad to be where the miss dashwoods were, received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. they were to meet mrs. ferrars; but elinor could not learn whether her sons were to be of the party. the expectation of seeing her, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet edward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in company with mrs. ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever. the interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the miss steeles were also to be at it. so well had they recommended themselves to lady middleton, so agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though lucy was certainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as sir john to ask them to spend a week or two in conduit street; and it happened to be particularly convenient to the miss steeles, as soon as the dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party took place. their claims to the notice of mrs. john dashwood, as the nieces of the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as lady middleton's guests they must be welcome; and lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life, than she was on receiving mrs. john dashwood's card. on elinor its effect was very different. she began immediately to determine, that edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first time, after all that passed, in the company of lucy!--she hardly knew how she could bear it! these apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on truth. they were relieved however, not by her own recollection, but by the good will of lucy, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that edward certainly would not be in harley street on tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together. the important tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this formidable mother-in-law. "pity me, dear miss dashwood!" said lucy, as they walked up the stairs together--for the middletons arrived so directly after mrs. jennings, that they all followed the servant at the same time--"there is nobody here but you, that can feel for me.--i declare i can hardly stand. good gracious!--in a moment i shall see the person that all my happiness depends on--that is to be my mother!"-- elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of its being miss morton's mother, rather than her own, whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter amazement of lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to elinor. mrs. ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. her complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters of pride and ill nature. she was not a woman of many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not one fell to the share of miss dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited determination of disliking her at all events. elinor could not now be made unhappy by this behaviour.-- a few months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in mrs. ferrars' power to distress her by it now;--and the difference of her manners to the miss steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused her. she could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person-- for lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others, had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. but while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the miss steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all four. lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and miss steele wanted only to be teazed about dr. davies to be perfectly happy. the dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing bespoke the mistress's inclination for show, and the master's ability to support it. in spite of the improvements and additions which were making to the norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to infer from it;--no poverty of any kind, except of conversation, appeared--but there, the deficiency was considerable. john dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. but there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable--want of sense, either natural or improved--want of elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper. when the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen had supplied the discourse with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land, and breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of harry dashwood, and lady middleton's second son william, who were nearly of the same age. had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as harry only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked. the parties stood thus: the two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other. the two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant. lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between them; and miss steele, with yet greater address gave it, as fast as she could, in favour of each. elinor, having once delivered her opinion on william's side, by which she offended mrs. ferrars and fanny still more, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and marianne, when called on for hers, offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had never thought about it. before her removing from norland, elinor had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens, catching the eye of john dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to colonel brandon for his admiration. "these are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of taste, will, i dare say, be pleased with them. i do not know whether you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well." the colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by miss dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for general inspection. mrs. ferrars, not aware of their being elinor's work, particularly requested to look at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of lady middletons's approbation, fanny presented them to her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by miss dashwood. "hum"--said mrs. ferrars--"very pretty,"--and without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter. perhaps fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude enough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said, "they are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?" but then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added, "do you not think they are something in miss morton's style of painting, ma'am?--she does paint most delightfully!--how beautifully her last landscape is done!" "beautifully indeed! but she does every thing well." marianne could not bear this.--she was already greatly displeased with mrs. ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at elinor's expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth, "this is admiration of a very particular kind!--what is miss morton to us?--who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is elinor of whom we think and speak." and so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be admired. mrs. ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "miss morton is lord morton's daughter." fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his sister's audacity. elinor was much more hurt by marianne's warmth than she had been by what produced it; but colonel brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point. marianne's feelings did not stop here. the cold insolence of mrs. ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such difficulties and distresses to elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager, voice, "dear, dear elinor, don't mind them. don't let them make you unhappy." she could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. every body's attention was called, and almost every body was concerned.--colonel brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.--mrs. jennings, with a very intelligent "ah! poor dear," immediately gave her her salts; and sir john felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by lucy steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair. in a few minutes, however, marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening. "poor marianne!" said her brother to colonel brandon, in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention,-- "she has not such good health as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not elinor's constitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying to a young woman who has been a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions. you would not think it perhaps, but marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as elinor.-- now you see it is all gone." chapter elinor's curiosity to see mrs. ferrars was satisfied.-- she had found in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between the families undesirable.-- she had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage, of edward and herself, had he been otherwise free;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her own sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other of mrs. ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. or at least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in edward's being fettered to lucy, she determined, that had lucy been more amiable, she ought to have rejoiced. she wondered that lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the civility of mrs. ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she was not elinor, appear a compliment to herself--or to allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was unknown. but that it was so, had not only been declared by lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, lady middleton set her down in berkeley street on the chance of seeing elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was. the chance proved a lucky one, for a message from mrs. palmer soon after she arrived, carried mrs. jennings away. "my dear friend," cried lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, "i come to talk to you of my happiness. could anything be so flattering as mrs. ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? so exceeding affable as she was!--you know how i dreaded the thoughts of seeing her;--but the very moment i was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. now was not it so?-- you saw it all; and was not you quite struck with it?" "she was certainly very civil to you." "civil!--did you see nothing but only civility?-- i saw a vast deal more. such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--no pride, no hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and affability!" elinor wished to talk of something else, but lucy still pressed her to own that she had reason for her happiness; and elinor was obliged to go on.-- "undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was not the case"-- "i guessed you would say so,"--replied lucy quickly--"but there was no reason in the world why mrs. ferrars should seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every thing. you shan't talk me out of my satisfaction. i am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what i used to think. mrs. ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister. they are both delightful women, indeed!--i wonder i should never hear you say how agreeable mrs. dashwood was!" to this elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any. "are you ill, miss dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you an't well." "i never was in better health." "i am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. i should be sorry to have you ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world!--heaven knows what i should have done without your friendship."-- elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. but it seemed to satisfy lucy, for she directly replied, "indeed i am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to edward's love, it is the greatest comfort i have.--poor edward!--but now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for lady middleton's delighted with mrs. dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in harley street, i dare say, and edward spends half his time with his sister--besides, lady middleton and mrs. ferrars will visit now;--and mrs. ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me.-- they are such charming women!--i am sure if ever you tell your sister what i think of her, you cannot speak too high." but elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she should tell her sister. lucy continued. "i am sure i should have seen it in a moment, if mrs. ferrars had took a dislike to me. if she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what i mean--if i had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, i should have gave it all up in despair. i could not have stood it. for where she does dislike, i know it is most violent." elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing mr. ferrars, and edward's immediately walking in. it was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that it was so. they all looked exceedingly foolish; and edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. the very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them.--they were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. the ladies recovered themselves first. it was not lucy's business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. she could therefore only look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more. but elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. she would not allow the presence of lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in berkeley street. she would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her. her manners gave some re-assurance to edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of elinor's. lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that was said, proceeded from elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c. which edward ought to have inquired about, but never did. her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and that in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. when that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of edward to cease; for marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. she met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister. "dear edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!--this would almost make amends for every thing!" edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at edward and sometimes at elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by lucy's unwelcome presence. edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding london agree with her. "oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of my health. elinor is well, you see. that must be enough for us both." this remark was not calculated to make edward or elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of lucy, who looked up at marianne with no very benignant expression. "do you like london?" said edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject. "not at all. i expected much pleasure in it, but i have found none. the sight of you, edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank heaven! you are what you always were!" she paused--no one spoke. "i think, elinor," she presently added, "we must employ edward to take care of us in our return to barton. in a week or two, i suppose, we shall be going; and, i trust, edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge." poor edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. but marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else. "we spent such a day, edward, in harley street yesterday! so dull, so wretchedly dull!--but i have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now." and with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private. "but why were you not there, edward?--why did you not come?" "i was engaged elsewhere." "engaged! but what was that, when such friends were to be met?" "perhaps, miss marianne," cried lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great." elinor was very angry, but marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied, "not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, i am very sure that conscience only kept edward from harley street. and i really believe he has the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. he is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body i ever saw. edward, it is so, and i will say it. what! are you never to hear yourself praised!--then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation." the nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to edward, that he very soon got up to go away. "going so soon!" said marianne; "my dear edward, this must not be." and drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that lucy could not stay much longer. but even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away. "what can bring her here so often?" said marianne, on her leaving them. "could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teazing to edward!" "why so?--we were all his friends, and lucy has been the longest known to him of any. it is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves." marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "you know, elinor, that this is a kind of talking which i cannot bear. if you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as i must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that i am the last person in the world to do it. i cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted." she then left the room; and elinor dared not follow her to say more, for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to lucy, she could give no information that would convince marianne; and painful as the consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it. all that she could hope, was that edward would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had every reason to expect. chapter within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world, that the lady of thomas palmer, esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before. this event, highly important to mrs. jennings's happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possible with charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening; and the miss dashwoods, at the particular request of the middletons, spent the whole of every day in conduit street. for their own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in mrs. jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. their hours were therefore made over to lady middleton and the two miss steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought. they had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on their ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. though nothing could be more polite than lady middleton's behaviour to elinor and marianne, she did not really like them at all. because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but that did not signify. it was censure in common use, and easily given. their presence was a restraint both on her and on lucy. it checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other. lady middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which lucy was proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering. miss steele was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely. would either of them only have given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between marianne and mr. willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. but this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. an effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend. would they only have laughed at her about the doctor! but so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if sir john dined from home, she might spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself. all these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected by mrs. jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. she joined them sometimes at sir john's, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing charlotte's well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation, as only miss steele had curiosity enough to desire. one thing did disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint. mr. palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world. i come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell mrs. john dashwood. it so happened that while her two sisters with mrs. jennings were first calling on her in harley street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her. but while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. in the present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the miss dashwoods, and understanding them to be mr. dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them to be staying in harley street; and this misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. the consequence of which was, that mrs. john dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the miss dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time? the power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be hers. but that was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them. marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take her. to her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet, which it received from miss steele in the first five minutes of their being together, when it was finished. nothing escaped her minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether with better judgment than marianne herself, and was not without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. the impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was considered by marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and she dared to say she would make a great many conquests." with such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman. the events of this evening were not very remarkable. the party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in england. as elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. in one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at gray's. she perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and mr. dashwood introduced him to her as mr. robert ferrars. he addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by lucy. happy had it been for her, if her regard for edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! for then his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. but while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with the modesty and worth of the other. why they were different, robert exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme gaucherie which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education; while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man. "upon my soul," he added, "i believe it is nothing more; and so i often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'my dear madam,' i always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. the evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. why would you be persuaded by my uncle, sir robert, against your own judgment, to place edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? if you had only sent him to westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to mr. pratt's, all this would have been prevented.' this is the way in which i always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error." elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of edward's abode in mr. pratt's family, with any satisfaction. "you reside in devonshire, i think,"--was his next observation, "in a cottage near dawlish." elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising to him that anybody could live in devonshire, without living near dawlish. he bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species of house. "for my own part," said he, "i am excessively fond of a cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. and i protest, if i had any money to spare, i should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short distance of london, where i might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. i advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. my friend lord courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of bonomi's. i was to decide on the best of them. 'my dear courtland,' said i, immediately throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage.' and that i fancy, will be the end of it. "some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. i was last month at my friend elliott's, near dartford. lady elliott wished to give a dance. 'but how can it be done?' said she; 'my dear ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. there is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?' i immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so i said, 'my dear lady elliott, do not be uneasy. the dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.' lady elliott was delighted with the thought. we measured the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. so that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling." elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition. as john dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home. the consideration of mrs. dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while mrs. jennings's engagements kept her from home. the expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. fanny was startled at the proposal. "i do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting lady middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise i should be exceedingly glad to do it. you know i am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews. but they are lady middleton's visitors. how can i ask them away from her?" her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her objection. "they had already spent a week in this manner in conduit street, and lady middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such near relations." fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said, "my love i would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power. but i had just settled within myself to ask the miss steeles to spend a few days with us. they are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and i think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by edward. we can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the miss steeles may not be in town any more. i am sure you will like them; indeed, you do like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with harry!" mr. dashwood was convinced. he saw the necessity of inviting the miss steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing elinor to town as colonel brandon's wife, and marianne as their visitor. fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to lucy, to request her company and her sister's, for some days, in harley street, as soon as lady middleton could spare them. this was enough to make lucy really and reasonably happy. mrs. dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! such an opportunity of being with edward and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! it was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to lady middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days' time. when the note was shown to elinor, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing that lucy wished. her flattery had already subdued the pride of lady middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of mrs. john dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater. the miss steeles removed to harley street, and all that reached elinor of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. sir john, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. mrs. dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called lucy by her christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them. [at this point in the first and second editions, volume ii ended.] chapter mrs. palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the miss dashwoods very ready to resume their former share. about the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in berkeley street, mrs. jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to mrs. palmer, entered the drawing-room, where elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying, "lord! my dear miss dashwood! have you heard the news?" "no, ma'am. what is it?" "something so strange! but you shall hear it all.-- when i got to mr. palmer's, i found charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. she was sure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. so i looked at it directly, and, 'lord! my dear,' says i, 'it is nothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same. but charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so mr. donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from harley street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever mama, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then charlotte was easy. and so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, i am sure i do not know how i happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. so upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'for fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister's indisposition, i think it advisable to say, that i believe there is no great reason for alarm; i hope mrs. dashwood will do very well.'" "what! is fanny ill?" "that is exactly what i said, my dear. 'lord!' says i, 'is mrs. dashwood ill?' so then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all i can learn, seems to be this. mr. edward ferrars, the very young man i used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out, i am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), mr. edward ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin lucy!--there's for you, my dear!--and not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except nancy!--could you have believed such a thing possible?-- there is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it!--that is strange!--i never happened to see them together, or i am sure i should have found it out directly. well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of mrs. ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter;--till this very morning, poor nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out. 'lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are all so fond of lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between edward and some lord's daughter or other, i forget who. so you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride. she fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the country. so up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. poor soul! i pity her. and i must say, i think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do. mrs. dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon his knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. then she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for mr. donavan, and mr. donavan found the house in all this uproar. the carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and nancy, she was almost as bad. i declare, i have no patience with your sister; and i hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. lord! what a taking poor mr. edward will be in when he hears of it! to have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. i should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!--and mr. donavan thinks just the same. he and i had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back again to harley street, that he may be within call when mrs. ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister was sure she would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what i care. i have no pity for either of them. i have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and greatness. there is no reason on earth why mr. edward and lucy should not marry; for i am sure mrs. ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make the most of every thing; i dare say, if mrs. ferrars would only allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it as any body else would with eight. lord! how snug they might live in such another cottage as yours--or a little bigger--with two maids, and two men; and i believe i could help them to a housemaid, for my betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly." here mrs. jennings ceased, and as elinor had had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that mrs. jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to edward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of marianne, she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it. she could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of edward and lucy. what mrs. ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how edward would conduct himself. for him she felt much compassion;--for lucy very little--and it cost her some pains to procure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all. as mrs. jennings could talk on no other subject, elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing marianne for its discussion. no time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against edward. elinor's office was a painful one.--she was going to remove what she really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such particulars of edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion,-and to make marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to her fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. but unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and elinor therefore hastened to perform it. she was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of edward's engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to marianne. her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief.--that belonged rather to the hearer, for marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very earnest vindication of edward from every charge but of imprudence, was readily offered. but marianne for some time would give credit to neither. edward seemed a second willoughby; and acknowledging as elinor did, that she had loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! as for lucy steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of edward for her. she would not even admit it to have been natural; and elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind. her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.--marianne's feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. the first question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,-- "how long has this been known to you, elinor? has he written to you?" "i have known it these four months. when lucy first came to barton park last november, she told me in confidence of her engagement." at these words, marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her lips could not utter. after a pause of wonder, she exclaimed-- "four months!--have you known of this four months?" elinor confirmed it. "what!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart?--and i have reproached you for being happy!"-- "it was not fit that you should then know how much i was the reverse!" "four months!"--cried marianne again.--"so calm!--so cheerful!--how have you been supported?"-- "by feeling that i was doing my duty.--my promise to lucy, obliged me to be secret. i owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and i owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy." marianne seemed much struck. "i have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother," added elinor; "and once or twice i have attempted it;--but without betraying my trust, i never could have convinced you." "four months!--and yet you loved him!"-- "yes. but i did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others was dear to me, i was glad to spare them from knowing how much i felt. now, i can think and speak of it with little emotion. i would not have you suffer on my account; for i assure you i no longer suffer materially myself. i have many things to support me. i am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, i have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther. i acquit edward of essential misconduct. i wish him very happy; and i am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. lucy does not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.--and after all, marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.-- edward will marry lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to her."-- "if such is your way of thinking," said marianne, "if the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at.--they are brought more within my comprehension." "i understand you.--you do not suppose that i have ever felt much.--for four months, marianne, i have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.-- it was told me,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as i thought, with triumph.-- this person's suspicions, therefore, i have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where i have been most deeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--i have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and again.-- i have known myself to be divided from edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection.--nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.-- i have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages.-- and all this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness.-- if you can think me capable of ever feeling--surely you may suppose that i have suffered now. the composure of mind with which i have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that i have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion;--they did not spring up of themselves;--they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.-- no, marianne.--then, if i had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely--not even what i owed to my dearest friends--from openly shewing that i was very unhappy."-- marianne was quite subdued.-- "oh! elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever.--how barbarous have i been to you!--you, who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me!--is this my gratitude?--is this the only return i can make you?--because your merit cries out upon myself, i have been trying to do it away." the tenderest caresses followed this confession. in such a frame of mind as she was now in, elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise she required; and at her request, marianne engaged never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness;--to meet lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her;--and even to see edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.-- these were great concessions;--but where marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make. she performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.--she attended to all that mrs. jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, "yes, ma'am."--she listened to her praise of lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when mrs. jennings talked of edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.--such advances towards heroism in her sister, made elinor feel equal to any thing herself. the next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife. "you have heard, i suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday." they all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech. "your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. mrs. ferrars too--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but i will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. poor fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. but i would not alarm you too much. donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing. she has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! she says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!--meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence had been placed! it was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. and now to be so rewarded! 'i wish, with all my heart,' says poor fanny in her affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'" here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on. "what poor mrs. ferrars suffered, when first fanny broke it to her, is not to be described. while she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!--such a suspicion could never have entered her head! if she suspected any prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in that quarter. 'there, to be sure,' said she, 'i might have thought myself safe.' she was quite in an agony. we consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for edward. he came. but i am sorry to relate what ensued. all that mrs. ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. i never thought edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. his mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying miss morton; told him she would settle on him the norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. his own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it." here marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "gracious god! can this be possible!" "well may you wonder, marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. your exclamation is very natural." marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore. "all this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. he would stand to it, cost him what it might." "then," cried mrs. jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent, "he has acted like an honest man! i beg your pardon, mr. dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, i should have thought him a rascal. i have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for lucy steele is my cousin, and i believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband." john dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. he therefore replied, without any resentment, "i would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. miss lucy steele is, i dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible. and to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as mrs. ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. in short, i do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, mrs. jennings. we all wish her extremely happy; and mrs. ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. it has been dignified and liberal. edward has drawn his own lot, and i fear it will be a bad one." marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and elinor's heart wrung for the feelings of edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward him. "well, sir," said mrs. jennings, "and how did it end?" "i am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:-- edward is dismissed for ever from his mother's notice. he left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, i do not know; for we of course can make no inquiry." "poor young man!--and what is to become of him?" "what, indeed, ma'am! it is a melancholy consideration. born to the prospect of such affluence! i cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. the interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on it?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year (for miss morton has thirty thousand pounds,) i cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. we must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him." "poor young man!" cried mrs. jennings, "i am sure he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so i would tell him if i could see him. it is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns." elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form of it. "if he would only have done as well by himself," said john dashwood, "as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. but as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. and there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle that estate upon robert immediately, which might have been edward's, on proper conditions. i left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business." "well!" said mrs. jennings, "that is her revenge. everybody has a way of their own. but i don't think mine would be, to make one son independent, because another had plagued me." marianne got up and walked about the room. "can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued john, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own? poor edward! i feel for him sincerely." a few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed there was no material danger in fanny's indisposition, and that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it regarded mrs. ferrars's conduct, the dashwoods', and edward's. marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in elinor, and unnecessary in mrs. jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party. chapter mrs. jennings was very warm in her praise of edward's conduct, but only elinor and marianne understood its true merit. they only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. elinor gloried in his integrity; and marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his punishment. but though confidence between them was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. elinor avoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of marianne, that belief of edward's continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced between elinor's conduct and her own. she felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope of amendment. her mind was so much weakened that she still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more. nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in harley street, or bartlett's buildings. but though so much of the matter was known to them already, that mrs. jennings might have had enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them within that time. the third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so fine, so beautiful a sunday as to draw many to kensington gardens, though it was only the second week in march. mrs. jennings and elinor were of the number; but marianne, who knew that the willoughbys were again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place. an intimate acquaintance of mrs. jennings joined them soon after they entered the gardens, and elinor was not sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all mrs. jennings's conversation, she was herself left to quiet reflection. she saw nothing of the willoughbys, nothing of edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. but at last she found herself with some surprise, accosted by miss steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of mrs. jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's. mrs. jennings immediately whispered to elinor, "get it all out of her, my dear. she will tell you any thing if you ask. you see i cannot leave mrs. clarke." it was lucky, however, for mrs. jennings's curiosity and elinor's too, that she would tell any thing without being asked; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt. "i am so glad to meet you;" said miss steele, taking her familiarly by the arm--"for i wanted to see you of all things in the world." and then lowering her voice, "i suppose mrs. jennings has heard all about it. is she angry?" "not at all, i believe, with you." "that is a good thing. and lady middleton, is she angry?" "i cannot suppose it possible that she should be." "i am monstrous glad of it. good gracious! i have had such a time of it! i never saw lucy in such a rage in my life. she vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever. look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night. there now, you are going to laugh at me too. but why should not i wear pink ribbons? i do not care if it is the doctor's favourite colour. i am sure, for my part, i should never have known he did like it better than any other colour, if he had not happened to say so. my cousins have been so plaguing me! i declare sometimes i do not know which way to look before them." she had wandered away to a subject on which elinor had nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first. "well, but miss dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what they chuse about mr. ferrars's declaring he would not have lucy, for it is no such thing i can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. whatever lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain." "i never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, i assure you," said elinor. "oh, did not you? but it was said, i know, very well, and by more than one; for miss godby told miss sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect mr. ferrars to give up a woman like miss morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for lucy steele that had nothing at all; and i had it from miss sparks myself. and besides that, my cousin richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid mr. ferrars would be off; and when edward did not come near us for three days, i could not tell what to think myself; and i believe in my heart lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all thursday, friday, and saturday, and did not know what was become of him. once lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. however this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for wednesday to harley street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but lucy, and nobody but lucy would he have. and how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all thursday and friday, on purpose to get the better of it. and after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?--he could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. i heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. and it was entirely for her sake, and upon her account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. i will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry miss morton, or any thing like it. but, to be sure, lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that--oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you know)--she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. so then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. and just then i could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me mrs. richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to kensington gardens; so i was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave edward; so i just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the richardsons." "i do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?" "no, indeed, not us. la! miss dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? oh, for shame!--to be sure you must know better than that. (laughing affectedly.)--no, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all i heard was only by listening at the door." "how!" cried elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? i am sorry i did not know it before; for i certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. how could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "oh, la! there is nothing in that. i only stood at the door, and heard what i could. and i am sure lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when martha sharpe and i had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." elinor tried to talk of something else; but miss steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "edward talks of going to oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at no. --, pall mall. what an ill-natured woman his mother is, an't she? and your brother and sister were not very kind! however, i shan't say anything against them to you; and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than i looked for. and for my part, i was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and i took care to keep mine out of sight. edward have got some business at oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after that, as soon as he can light upon a bishop, he will be ordained. i wonder what curacy he will get!--good gracious! (giggling as she spoke) i'd lay my life i know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. they will tell me i should write to the doctor, to get edward the curacy of his new living. i know they will; but i am sure i would not do such a thing for all the world.-- 'la!' i shall say directly, 'i wonder how you could think of such a thing? i write to the doctor, indeed!'" "well," said elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst. you have got your answer ready." miss steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made another more necessary. "oh, la! here come the richardsons. i had a vast deal more to say to you, but i must not stay away from them not any longer. i assure you they are very genteel people. he makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach. i have not time to speak to mrs. jennings about it myself, but pray tell her i am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and lady middleton the same; and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and mrs. jennings should want company, i am sure we should be very glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes. i suppose lady middleton won't ask us any more this bout. good-by; i am sorry miss marianne was not here. remember me kindly to her. la! if you have not got your spotted muslin on!--i wonder you was not afraid of its being torn." such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her farewell compliments to mrs. jennings, before her company was claimed by mrs. richardson; and elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. edward's marriage with lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance. as soon as they returned to the carriage, mrs. jennings was eager for information; but as elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. the continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication; and this produced from mrs. jennings the following natural remark. "wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how that will end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter mr. steele and mr. pratt can give her.--then they will have a child every year! and lord help 'em! how poor they will be!--i must see what i can give them towards furnishing their house. two maids and two men, indeed!--as i talked of t'other day.--no, no, they must get a stout girl of all works.-- betty's sister would never do for them now." the next morning brought elinor a letter by the two-penny post from lucy herself. it was as follows: "bartlett's building, march. "i hope my dear miss dashwood will excuse the liberty i take of writing to her; but i know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and my dear edward, after all the troubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed to say that, thank god! though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always be in one another's love. we have had great trials, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness i shall always thankfully remember, as will edward too, who i have told of it. i am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear mrs. jennings, i spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did i, as i thought my duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear mrs. jennings too, trust she will speak a good word for us to sir john, or mr. palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.--poor anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so i say nothing; hope mrs. jennings won't think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her.--my paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to sir john, and lady middleton, and the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to miss marianne, "i am, &c." as soon as elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of mrs. jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise. "very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite proper to let him be off if he would. that was just like lucy.--poor soul! i wish i could get him a living, with all my heart.--she calls me dear mrs. jennings, you see. she is a good-hearted girl as ever lived.--very well upon my word. that sentence is very prettily turned. yes, yes, i will go and see her, sure enough. how attentive she is, to think of every body!--thank you, my dear, for shewing it me. it is as pretty a letter as ever i saw, and does lucy's head and heart great credit." chapter the miss dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. she sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could give her ease, barton must do it. elinor was hardly less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, which marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. she began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to elinor altogether much more eligible than any other. the palmers were to remove to cleveland about the end of march, for the easter holidays; and mrs. jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from charlotte to go with them. this would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of miss dashwood;--but it was inforced with so much real politeness by mr. palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure. when she told marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not very auspicious. "cleveland!"--she cried, with great agitation. "no, i cannot go to cleveland."-- "you forget," said elinor gently, "that its situation is not...that it is not in the neighbourhood of..." "but it is in somersetshire.--i cannot go into somersetshire.--there, where i looked forward to going...no, elinor, you cannot expect me to go there." elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such feelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on others;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. from cleveland, which was within a few miles of bristol, the distance to barton was not beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their staying above a week at cleveland, they might now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. as marianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started. mrs. jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from cleveland. elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;--and marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that were yet to divide her from barton. "ah! colonel, i do not know what you and i shall do without the miss dashwoods;"--was mrs. jennings's address to him when he first called on her, after their leaving her was settled--"for they are quite resolved upon going home from the palmers;--and how forlorn we shall be, when i come back!--lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats." perhaps mrs. jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself an escape from it;--and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object gained; for, on elinor's moving to the window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes. the effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even changed her seat, on purpose that she might not hear, to one close by the piano forte on which marianne was playing, she could not keep herself from seeing that elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment.-- still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words of the colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologising for the badness of his house. this set the matter beyond a doubt. she wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it to be the proper etiquette. what elinor said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she did not think that any material objection;--and mrs. jennings commended her in her heart for being so honest. they then talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in marianne's performance brought her these words in the colonel's calm voice,-- "i am afraid it cannot take place very soon." astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to cry out, "lord! what should hinder it?"--but checking her desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation. "this is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older." this delay on the colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, mrs. jennings very plainly heard elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to feel what she said, "i shall always think myself very much obliged to you." mrs. jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that after hearing such a sentence, the colonel should be able to take leave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without making her any reply!--she had not thought her old friend could have made so indifferent a suitor. what had really passed between them was to this effect. "i have heard," said he, with great compassion, "of the injustice your friend mr. ferrars has suffered from his family; for if i understand the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman.-- have i been rightly informed?--is it so?--" elinor told him that it was. "the cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,"--he replied, with great feeling,--"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is terrible.-- mrs. ferrars does not know what she may be doing--what she may drive her son to. i have seen mr. ferrars two or three times in harley street, and am much pleased with him. he is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but i have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, i wish it still more. i understand that he intends to take orders. will you be so good as to tell him that the living of delaford, now just vacant, as i am informed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance--but that, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; i only wish it were more valuable.-- it is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, i believe, did not make more than l per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, i fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting it to him, will be very great. pray assure him of it." elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had the colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. the preferment, which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and she, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--her emotion was such as mrs. jennings had attributed to a very different cause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted colonel brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. she thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. but at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. it was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give edward the pain of receiving an obligation from her, she would have been very glad to be spared herself;-- but colonel brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from miss steele. she could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. after this had been settled, colonel brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and then it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent;--an evil which elinor, as mrs. jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. "the smallness of the house," said she, "i cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income." by which the colonel was surprised to find that she was considering mr. ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on--and he said so. "this little rectory can do no more than make mr. ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. i am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. if, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, i must think very differently of him from what i now do, if i am not as ready to be useful to him then as i sincerely wish i could be at present. what i am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. his marriage must still be a distant good;--at least, i am afraid it cannot take place very soon.--" such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of mrs. jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between colonel brandon and elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. chapter "well, miss dashwood," said mrs. jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "i do not ask you what the colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, i tried to keep out of hearing, i could not help catching enough to understand his business. and i assure you i never was better pleased in my life, and i wish you joy of it with all my heart." "thank you, ma'am," said elinor. "it is a matter of great joy to me; and i feel the goodness of colonel brandon most sensibly. there are not many men who would act as he has done. few people who have so compassionate a heart! i never was more astonished in my life." "lord! my dear, you are very modest. i an't the least astonished at it in the world, for i have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "you judged from your knowledge of the colonel's general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "opportunity!" repeated mrs. jennings--"oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. well, my dear, i wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, i think i shall soon know where to look for them." "you mean to go to delaford after them i suppose," said elinor, with a faint smile. "aye, my dear, that i do, indeed. and as to the house being a bad one, i do not know what the colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever i saw." "he spoke of its being out of repair." "well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it?--who should do it but himself?" they were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and mrs. jennings immediately preparing to go, said,-- "well, my dear, i must be gone before i have had half my talk out. but, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. i do not ask you to go with me, for i dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it." marianne had left the room before the conversation began. "certainly, ma'am, i shall tell marianne of it; but i shall not mention it at present to any body else." "oh! very well," said mrs. jennings rather disappointed. "then you would not have me tell it to lucy, for i think of going as far as holborn to-day." "no, ma'am, not even lucy if you please. one day's delay will not be very material; and till i have written to mr. ferrars, i think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. i shall do that directly. it is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination." this speech at first puzzled mrs. jennings exceedingly. why mr. ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. a few moments' reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed;-- "oh, ho!--i understand you. mr. ferrars is to be the man. well, so much the better for him. ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and i am very glad to find things are so forward between you. but, my dear, is not this rather out of character? should not the colonel write himself?--sure, he is the proper person." elinor did not quite understand the beginning of mrs. jennings's speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "colonel brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to mr. ferrars than himself." "and so you are forced to do it. well that is an odd kind of delicacy! however, i will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write.) you know your own concerns best. so goodby, my dear. i have not heard of any thing to please me so well since charlotte was brought to bed." and away she went; but returning again in a moment, "i have just been thinking of betty's sister, my dear. i should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. but whether she would do for a lady's maid, i am sure i can't tell. she is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. however, you will think of all that at your leisure." "certainly, ma'am," replied elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject. how she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to edward, was now all her concern. the particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of edward himself. he had met mrs. jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that miss dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business. elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. she had not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. he too was much distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment.--whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair. "mrs. jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me, at least i understood her so--or i certainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time, i should have been extremely sorry to leave london without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable that i should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. i go to oxford tomorrow." "you would not have gone, however," said elinor, recovering herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person. mrs. jennings was quite right in what she said. i have something of consequence to inform you of, which i was on the point of communicating by paper. i am charged with a most agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.) colonel brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the living of delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable. allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living--it is about two hundred a-year--were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to--as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself--such, in short, as might establish all your views of happiness." what edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him. he looked all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words, "colonel brandon!" "yes," continued elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, "colonel brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed--for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you--a concern which i am sure marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion." "colonel brandon give me a living!--can it be possible?" "the unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where." "no," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in you; for i cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, i owe it all.--i feel it--i would express it if i could--but, as you well know, i am no orator." "you are very much mistaken. i do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and colonel brandon's discernment of it. i have had no hand in it. i did not even know, till i understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. as a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps--indeed i know he has, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation." truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. for a short time he sat deep in thought, after elinor had ceased to speak;--at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, "colonel brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. i have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother i know esteems him highly. he is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "indeed," replied elinor, "i believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for i understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he should be all this." edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "colonel brandon, i think, lodges in st. james street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. elinor told him the number of the house. "i must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give you; to assure him that he has made me a very--an exceedingly happy man." elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on her side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on his, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "when i see him again," said elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "i shall see him the husband of lucy." and with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. when mrs. jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as elinor appeared. "well, my dear," she cried, "i sent you up the young man. did not i do right?--and i suppose you had no great difficulty--you did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "no, ma'am; that was not very likely." "well, and how soon will he be ready?--for it seems all to depend upon that." "really," said elinor, "i know so little of these kind of forms, that i can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but i suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "two or three months!" cried mrs. jennings; "lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the colonel wait two or three months! lord bless me!--i am sure it would put me quite out of patience!--and though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor mr. ferrars, i do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "my dear ma'am," said elinor, "what can you be thinking of?-- why, colonel brandon's only object is to be of use to mr. ferrars." "lord bless you, my dear!--sure you do not mean to persuade me that the colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to mr. ferrars!" the deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for mrs. jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely may be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as i thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and i think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds!--and to you too, that had been used to live in barton cottage!-- it seems quite ridiculous. but, my dear, we must touch up the colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before lucy goes to it." "but colonel brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's being enough to allow them to marry." "the colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. take my word for it, that, if i am alive, i shall be paying a visit at delaford parsonage before michaelmas; and i am sure i shan't go if lucy an't there." elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more. chapter edward, having carried his thanks to colonel brandon, proceeded with his happiness to lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached bartlett's buildings, that she was able to assure mrs. jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined mrs. jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in delaford parsonage before michaelmas. so far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give elinor that credit which edward would give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on miss dashwood's part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued. as for colonel brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely resolved to avail herself, at delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry. it was now above a week since john dashwood had called in berkeley street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit.--this was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sister's going at all; and mrs. jennings, though her carriage was always at elinor's service, so very much disliked mrs. john dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. the consequence was, that elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike. mrs. dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the house, her husband accidentally came out. he expressed great pleasure in meeting elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in berkeley street, and, assuring her that fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in. they walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.--nobody was there. "fanny is in her own room, i suppose," said he:--"i will go to her presently, for i am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to seeing you.-- very far from it, indeed. now especially there cannot be--but however, you and marianne were always great favourites.--why would not marianne come?"-- elinor made what excuse she could for her. "i am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for i have a good deal to say to you. this living of colonel brandon's--can it be true?--has he really given it to edward?--i heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it." "it is perfectly true.--colonel brandon has given the living of delaford to edward." "really!--well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no connection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a price!--what was the value of this?" "about two hundred a year." "very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that value--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and likely to vacate it soon--he might have got i dare say--fourteen hundred pounds. and how came he not to have settled that matter before this person's death?--now indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a man of colonel brandon's sense!--i wonder he should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--well, i am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human character. i suppose, however--on recollection--that the case may probably be this. edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it.--aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it." elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from colonel brandon to edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority. "it is truly astonishing!"--he cried, after hearing what she said--"what could be the colonel's motive?" "a very simple one--to be of use to mr. ferrars." "well, well; whatever colonel brandon may be, edward is a very lucky man.--you will not mention the matter to fanny, however, for though i have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like to hear it much talked of." elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she thought fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished. "mrs. ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and i believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be.-- when the marriage takes place, i fear she must hear of it all." "but why should such precaution be used?--though it is not to be supposed that mrs. ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for that must be quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all?--she has done with her son, she cast him off for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast him off likewise. surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him.-- she would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!" "ah! elinor," said john, "your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature. when edward's unhappy match takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible. mrs. ferrars can never forget that edward is her son." "you surprise me; i should think it must nearly have escaped her memory by this time." "you wrong her exceedingly. mrs. ferrars is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world." elinor was silent. "we think now,"--said mr. dashwood, after a short pause, "of robert's marrying miss morton." elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's tone, calmly replied, "the lady, i suppose, has no choice in the affair." "choice!--how do you mean?" "i only mean that i suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be the same to miss morton whether she marry edward or robert." "certainly, there can be no difference; for robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: i do not know that one is superior to the other." elinor said no more, and john was also for a short time silent.--his reflections ended thus. "of one thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and speaking in an awful whisper,--"i may assure you;--and i will do it, because i know it must gratify you. i have good reason to think--indeed i have it from the best authority, or i should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say any thing about it--but i have it from the very best authority--not that i ever precisely heard mrs. ferrars say it herself--but her daughter did, and i have it from her--that in short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a certain connection--you understand me--it would have been far preferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that this does. i was exceedingly pleased to hear that mrs. ferrars considered it in that light--a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all. 'it would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound now for nothing worse.' but however, all that is quite out of the question--not to be thought of or mentioned--as to any attachment you know--it never could be--all that is gone by. but i thought i would just tell you of this, because i knew how much it must please you. not that you have any reason to regret, my dear elinor. there is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well--quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. has colonel brandon been with you lately?" elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by the entrance of mr. robert ferrars. after a few moments' chat, john dashwood, recollecting that fanny was yet uninformed of her sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with robert, who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart. they had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to speak of edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to john; and their effect on robert, though very different, was not less striking than it had been on him. he laughed most immoderately. the idea of edward's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of edward reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between john smith and mary brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous. elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. it was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him. he was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility. "we may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the moment--"but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. poor edward! he is ruined for ever. i am extremely sorry for it--for i know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. you must not judge of him, miss dashwood, from your slight acquaintance.--poor edward!--his manners are certainly not the happiest in nature.--but we are not all born, you know, with the same powers,--the same address.-- poor fellow!--to see him in a circle of strangers!--to be sure it was pitiable enough!--but upon my soul, i believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and i declare and protest to you i never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. i could not believe it.-- my mother was the first person who told me of it; and i, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, 'my dear madam, i do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, i must say, that if edward does marry this young woman, i never will see him again.' that was what i said immediately.-- i was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!--poor edward!--he has done for himself completely--shut himself out for ever from all decent society!--but, as i directly said to my mother, i am not in the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be expected. my poor mother was half frantic." "have you ever seen the lady?" "yes; once, while she was staying in this house, i happened to drop in for ten minutes; and i saw quite enough of her. the merest awkward country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty.-- i remember her perfectly. just the kind of girl i should suppose likely to captivate poor edward. i offered immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late then, i found, to do any thing, for unluckily, i was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to interfere. but had i been informed of it a few hours earlier--i think it is most probable--that something might have been hit on. i certainly should have represented it to edward in a very strong light. 'my dear fellow,' i should have said, 'consider what you are doing. you are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' i cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found. but now it is all too late. he must be starved, you know;--that is certain; absolutely starved." he had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of mrs. john dashwood put an end to the subject. but though she never spoke of it out of her own family, elinor could see its influence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. she even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful. chapter one other short call in harley street, in which elinor received her brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards barton without any expense, and on colonel brandon's being to follow them to cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters in town;--and a faint invitation from fanny, to come to norland whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public, assurance, from john to elinor, of the promptitude with which he should come to see her at delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the country. it amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send her to delaford;--a place, in which, of all others, she would now least chuse to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as her future home by her brother and mrs. jennings, but even lucy, when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there. very early in april, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties from hanover square and berkeley street set out from their respective homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. for the convenience of charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their journey, and mr. palmer, travelling more expeditiously with colonel brandon, was to join them at cleveland soon after their arrival. marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in london, and eager as she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and that confidence, in willoughby, which were now extinguished for ever, without great pain. nor could she leave the place in which willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which she could have no share, without shedding many tears. elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive. she had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by willoughby since his marriage, and she looked forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at barton might do towards restoring marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own. their journey was safely performed. the second day brought them into the cherished, or the prohibited, county of somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by turns in marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of the third they drove up to cleveland. cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn. it had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them altogether, interspersed with tall lombardy poplars, shut out the offices. marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the consciousness of being only eighty miles from barton, and not thirty from combe magna; and before she had been five minutes within its walls, while the others were busily helping charlotte to show her child to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its grecian temple, her eye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their summits combe magna might be seen. in such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of agony to be at cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained with the palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles. she returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house, on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of charlotte,--and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources of merriment. the morning was fine and dry, and marianne, in her plan of employment abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay at cleveland. with great surprise therefore, did she find herself prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. she had depended on a twilight walk to the grecian temple, and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even she could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking. their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. mrs. palmer had her child, and mrs. jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they had left behind, arranged lady middleton's engagements, and wondered whether mr. palmer and colonel brandon would get farther than reading that night. elinor, however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse; and marianne, who had the knack of finding her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a book. nothing was wanting on mrs. palmer's side that constant and friendly good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. the openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh. the two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced very low. elinor had seen so little of mr. palmer, and in that little had seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew not what to expect to find him in his own family. she found him, however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to mrs. jennings and charlotte. for the rest of his character and habits, they were marked, as far as elinor could perceive, with no traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life. he was nice in his eating, uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been devoted to business. she liked him, however, upon the whole, much better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she could like him no more;--not sorry to be driven by the observation of his epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency on the remembrance of edward's generous temper, simple taste, and diffident feelings. of edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received intelligence from colonel brandon, who had been into dorsetshire lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of mr. ferrars, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to her a great deal of the parsonage at delaford, described its deficiencies, and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them.--his behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might very well justify mrs. jennings's persuasion of his attachment, and would have been enough, perhaps, had not elinor still, as from the first, believed marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself. but as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, except by mrs. jennings's suggestion; and she could not help believing herself the nicest observer of the two;--she watched his eyes, while mrs. jennings thought only of his behaviour;--and while his looks of anxious solicitude on marianne's feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the latter lady's observation;--she could discover in them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover. two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them, where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest, had--assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and stockings--given marianne a cold so violent as, though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself. prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined. though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a cough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely; and it was with difficulty that elinor prevailed on her, when she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies. chapter marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her accustomary employments. but a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, colonel brandon was only astonished at her sister's composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night, trusted, like marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm. a very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation of both; and when marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, elinor was very ready to adopt mrs. jennings's advice, of sending for the palmers' apothecary. he came, examined his patient, and though encouraging miss dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to mrs. palmer, on her baby's account. mrs. jennings, who had been inclined from the first to think marianne's complaint more serious than elinor, now looked very grave on mr. harris's report, and confirming charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant; and mr. palmer, though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be withstood. her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour after mr. harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of mr. palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of bath; whither her husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. mrs. jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which made elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from cleveland as long as marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of material use. poor marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended the whole way by a servant of mrs. jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon. the little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she then really believed herself, that it would be a very short one. the next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no amendment, did not appear worse. their party was now farther reduced; for mr. palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last by colonel brandon to perform his promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, colonel brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise.--here, however, the kindness of mrs. jennings interposed most acceptably; for to send the colonel away while his love was in so much uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his stay at cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play at piquet of an evening, while miss dashwood was above with her sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur; especially as mrs. jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by mr. palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise miss dashwood in any emergence. marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements. she knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. it gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of mrs. palmer; and as it gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name. two days passed away from the time of mr. palmer's departure, and her situation continued, with little variation, the same. mr. harris, who attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and miss dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful. mrs. jennings had determined very early in the seizure that marianne would never get over it, and colonel brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to mrs. jennings's forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. he tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see marianne no more. on the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of both were almost done away; for when mr. harris arrived, he declared his patient materially better. her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. elinor, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when marianne would be able to travel. but the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.-- towards the evening marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before. her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. her sleep, though not so quiet as elinor wished to see it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. mrs. jennings, knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and elinor remained alone with marianne. the repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,-- "is mama coming?--" "not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, i hope, before it is long. it is a great way, you know, from hence to barton." "but she must not go round by london," cried marianne, in the same hurried manner. "i shall never see her, if she goes by london." elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. it was lower and quicker than ever! and marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for mr. harris, and despatching a messenger to barton for her mother. to consult with colonel brandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present. it was no time for hesitation. her fears and her difficulties were immediately before him. her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to attempt the removal of:--he listened to them in silent despondence;--but her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch mrs. dashwood. elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. she thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to mr. harris, and an order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother. the comfort of such a friend at that moment as colonel brandon--or such a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a summons could be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it. he, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might look for his return. not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. the horses arrived, even before they were expected, and colonel brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. it was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the night. it was a night of almost equal suffering to both. hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on marianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on elinor's, before mr. harris appeared. her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow mrs. jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought. marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational. she was on the point of sending again for mr. harris, or if he could not come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after five o'clock--arrived. his opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to elinor. he promised to call again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had found them. with strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their aid, did mrs. jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to elinor, her conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. her heart was really grieved. the rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as marianne, must have struck a less interested person with concern. on mrs. jennings's compassion she had other claims. she had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy. the distress of her sister too, particularly a favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother, when mrs. jennings considered that marianne might probably be to her what charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in her sufferings was very sincere. mr. harris was punctual in his second visit;--but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. his medicines had failed;--the fever was unabated; and marianne only more quiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor. elinor, catching all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. but he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of miss dashwood. she was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of mrs. jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous indisposition which marianne's disappointment had brought on. elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections. about noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse;--she waited, watched, and examined it again and again;--and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. mrs. jennings, though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance;--and elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. but it was too late. hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what. half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her. others even arose to confirm it. her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered elinor with signs of amendment; and marianne fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze. anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of mr. harris at four o'clock;--when his assurances, his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy. marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her entirely out of danger. mrs. jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery. elinor could not be cheerful. her joy was of a different kind, and led to any thing rather than to gaiety. marianne restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude;--but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. all within elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and strong. she continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every breath. the possibility of a relapse would of course, in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was--but when she saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt. the time was now drawing on, when colonel brandon might be expected back. at ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towards them. the colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely less an object of pity!--oh!--how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance! at seven o'clock, leaving marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined mrs. jennings in the drawing-room to tea. of breakfast she had been kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much;--and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. mrs. jennings would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before her mother's arrival, and allow her to take her place by marianne; but elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary instant. mrs. jennings therefore attending her up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep. the night was cold and stormy. the wind roared round the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not. marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers--they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience. the clock struck eight. had it been ten, elinor would have been convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was the persuasion that she did, in spite of the almost impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the truth. she instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her. the flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view. by their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity. never in her life had elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at that moment. the knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage stopt at the door--of her doubt--her dread--perhaps her despair!--and of what she had to tell!--with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm. all that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore staying only till she could leave mrs. jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs. the bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house. she rushed to the drawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only willoughby. chapter elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication, "miss dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--i entreat you to stay." "no, sir," she replied with firmness, "i shall not stay. your business cannot be with me. the servants, i suppose, forgot to tell you that mr. palmer was not in the house." "had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that mr. palmer and all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the door. my business is with you, and only you." "with me!"--in the utmost amazement--"well, sir,--be quick--and if you can--less violent." "sit down, and i will be both." she hesitated; she knew not what to do. the possibility of colonel brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her. but she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was engaged. after a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. he took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by either. "pray be quick, sir,"--said elinor, impatiently;--"i have no time to spare." he was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her. "your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--"is out of danger. i heard it from the servant. god be praised!--but is it true? is it really true?" elinor would not speak. he repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness. "for god's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?" "we hope she is." he rose up, and walked across the room. "had i known as much half an hour ago--but since i am here,"--speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat--"what does it signify?--for once, miss dashwood--it will be the last time, perhaps--let us be cheerful together.--i am in a fine mood for gaiety.-- tell me honestly"--a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks--"do you think me most a knave or a fool?" elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. she began to think that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she immediately rose, saying, "mr. willoughby, i advise you at present to return to combe--i am not at leisure to remain with you longer.-- whatever your business may be with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow." "i understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm; "yes, i am very drunk.-- a pint of porter with my cold beef at marlborough was enough to over-set me." "at marlborough!"--cried elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at. "yes,--i left london this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes i have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at marlborough." the steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's recollection, "mr. willoughby, you ought to feel, and i certainly do--that after what has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse.--what is it, that you mean by it?"-- "i mean,"--said he, with serious energy--"if i can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do now. i mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though i have been always a blockhead, i have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from ma--from your sister." "is this the real reason of your coming?" "upon my soul it is,"--was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere. "if that is all, you may be satisfied already,--for marianne does--she has long forgiven you." "has she?"--he cried, in the same eager tone.-- "then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. but she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds.--now will you listen to me?" elinor bowed her assent. "i do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own,--"how you may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me.-- perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. when i first became intimate in your family, i had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while i was obliged to remain in devonshire, more pleasantly than i had ever done before. your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind--it is astonishing, when i reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my heart should have been so insensible! but at first i must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which i had always been too much in the habit of indulging, i endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection." miss dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying, "it is hardly worth while, mr. willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing.-- do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject." "i insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "my fortune was never large, and i had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. every year since my coming of age, or even before, i believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old cousin, mrs. smith, was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. to attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of;--and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty--which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, miss dashwood, can ever reprobate too much--i was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.--but one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, i did not know the extent of the injury i meditated, because i did not then know what it was to love. but have i ever known it?--well may it be doubted; for, had i really loved, could i have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice?--or, what is more, could i have sacrificed hers?-- but i have done it. to avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, i have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing." "you did then," said elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at one time attached to her?" "to have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!--is there a man on earth who could have done it?--yes, i found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what i spent with her when i felt my intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. even then, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, i allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. i will not reason here--nor will i stop for you to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. the event has proved, that i was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. at last, however, my resolution was taken, and i had determined, as soon as i could engage her alone, to justify the attentions i had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which i had already taken such pains to display. but in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before i could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. a discovery took place,"--here he hesitated and looked down.--"mrs. smith had somehow or other been informed, i imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection--but i need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye--"your particular intimacy--you have probably heard the whole story long ago." "i have," returned elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him, "i have heard it all. and how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, i confess is beyond my comprehension." "remember," cried willoughby, "from whom you received the account. could it be an impartial one? i acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. i do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that i have nothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because i was a libertine, she must be a saint. if the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding--i do not mean, however, to defend myself. her affection for me deserved better treatment, and i often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. i wish--i heartily wish it had never been. but i have injured more than herself; and i have injured one, whose affection for me--(may i say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind--oh! how infinitely superior!"-- "your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--i must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. you must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence." "but, upon my soul, i did not know it," he warmly replied; "i did not recollect that i had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might have told her how to find it out." "well, sir, and what said mrs. smith?" "she taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. the purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world--every thing was against me. the matter itself i could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. she was previously disposed, i believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that i had bestowed on her, in my present visit. in short, it ended in a total breach. by one measure i might have saved myself. in the height of her morality, good woman! she offered to forgive the past, if i would marry eliza. that could not be--and i was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. the night following this affair--i was to go the next morning--was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. the struggle was great--but it ended too soon. my affection for marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which i was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. i had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife, if i chose to address her, and i persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. a heavy scene however awaited me, before i could leave devonshire;--i was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement. but whether i should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. to see marianne, i felt, would be dreadful, and i even doubted whether i could see her again, and keep to my resolution. in that point, however, i undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for i went, i saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable--and left her hoping never to see her again." "why did you call, mr. willoughby?" said elinor, reproachfully; "a note would have answered every purpose.-- why was it necessary to call?" "it was necessary to my own pride. i could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between mrs. smith and myself--and i resolved therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way to honiton. the sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, i found her alone. you were all gone i do not know where. i had left her only the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! a few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and i remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, as i walked from the cottage to allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! but in this, our last interview of friendship, i approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when i told her that i was obliged to leave devonshire so immediately--i never shall forget it--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me!--oh, god!--what a hard-hearted rascal i was!" they were both silent for a few moments. elinor first spoke. "did you tell her that you should soon return?" "i do not know what i told her," he replied, impatiently; "less than was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was justified by the future. i cannot think of it.--it won't do.--then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence. thank heaven! it did torture me. i was miserable. miss dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. i owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. well, i went, left all that i loved, and went to those to whom, at best, i was only indifferent. my journey to town--travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own reflections so cheerful--when i looked forward every thing so inviting!--when i looked back at barton, the picture so soothing!--oh, it was a blessed journey!" he stopped. "well, sir," said elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for his departure, "and this is all?" "ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town?-- that infamous letter--did she shew it you?" "yes, i saw every note that passed." "when the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for i was in town the whole time,) what i felt is--in the common phrase, not to be expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any emotion--my feelings were very, very painful.--every line, every word was--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid--a dagger to my heart. to know that marianne was in town was--in the same language--a thunderbolt.--thunderbolts and daggers!--what a reproof would she have given me!--her taste, her opinions--i believe they are better known to me than my own,--and i am sure they are dearer." elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last. "this is not right, mr. willoughby.--remember that you are married. relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear." "marianne's note, by assuring me that i was still as dear to her as in former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. i say awakened, because time and london, business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and i had been growing a fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'i shall be heartily glad to hear she is well married.'-- but this note made me know myself better. i felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that i was using her infamously. but every thing was then just settled between miss grey and me. to retreat was impossible. all that i had to do, was to avoid you both. i sent no answer to marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her farther notice; and for some time i was even determined not to call in berkeley street;--but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, i watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my name." "watched us out of the house!" "even so. you would be surprised to hear how often i watched you, how often i was on the point of falling in with you. i have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. lodging as i did in bond street, there was hardly a day in which i did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. i avoided the middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. not aware of their being in town, however, i blundered on sir john, i believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after i had called at mrs. jennings's. he asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening.--had he not told me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, i should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. the next morning brought another short note from marianne--still affectionate, open, artless, confiding--everything that could make my conduct most hateful. i could not answer it. i tried--but could not frame a sentence. but i thought of her, i believe, every moment of the day. if you can pity me, miss dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. with my head and heart full of your sister, i was forced to play the happy lover to another woman!--those three or four weeks were worse than all. well, at last, as i need not tell you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure i cut!--what an evening of agony it was!-- marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me willoughby in such a tone!--oh, god!--holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face!--and sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that was--well, it does not signify; it is over now.-- such an evening!--i ran away from you all as soon as i could; but not before i had seen marianne's sweet face as white as death.--that was the last, last look i ever had of her;--the last manner in which she appeared to me. it was a horrid sight!--yet when i thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that i knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world. she was before me, constantly before me, as i travelled, in the same look and hue." a short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. willoughby first rousing himself, broke it thus: "well, let me make haste and be gone. your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger?" "we are assured of it." "your poor mother, too!--doting on marianne." "but the letter, mr. willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to say about that?" "yes, yes, that in particular. your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning. you saw what she said. i was breakfasting at the ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. it happened to catch sophia's eye before it caught mine--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever. affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents. she was well paid for her impudence. she read what made her wretched. her wretchedness i could have borne, but her passion--her malice--at all events it must be appeased. and, in short--what do you think of my wife's style of letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was it not?" "your wife!--the letter was in your own hand-writing." "yes, but i had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as i was ashamed to put my name to. the original was all her own--her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. but what could i do!--we were engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--but i am talking like a fool. preparation!--day!--in honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture. and after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched?--it must have been only to one end. my business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether i did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance.-- 'i am ruined for ever in their opinion--' said i to myself--'i am shut out for ever from their society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.' such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, i copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of marianne. her three notes--unluckily they were all in my pocketbook, or i should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever--i was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. and the lock of hair--that too i had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--all, every memento was torn from me." "you are very wrong, mr. willoughby, very blamable," said elinor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion; "you ought not to speak in this way, either of mrs. willoughby or my sister. you had made your own choice. it was not forced on you. your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. she must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. to treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to marianne--nor can i suppose it a relief to your own conscience." "do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh.-- "she does not deserve your compassion.--she knew i had no regard for her when we married.--well, married we were, and came down to combe magna to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.--and now do you pity me, miss dashwood?--or have i said all this to no purpose?-- am i--be it only one degree--am i less guilty in your opinion than i was before?--my intentions were not always wrong. have i explained away any part of my guilt?" "yes, you have certainly removed something--a little.-- you have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than i had believed you. you have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. but i hardly know--the misery that you have inflicted--i hardly know what could have made it worse." "will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what i have been telling you?--let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as in yours. you tell me that she has forgiven me already. let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. tell her of my misery and my penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever." "i will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification. but you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness." "last night, in drury lane lobby, i ran against sir john middleton, and when he saw who i was--for the first time these two months--he spoke to me.--that he had cut me ever since my marriage, i had seen without surprise or resentment. now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to--though probably he did not think it would--vex me horridly. as bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that marianne dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at cleveland--a letter that morning received from mrs. jennings declared her danger most imminent--the palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c.--i was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning sir john. his heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. what i felt on hearing that your sister was dying--and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could i tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? one person i was sure would represent me as capable of any thing-- what i felt was dreadful!--my resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning i was in my carriage. now you know all." elinor made no answer. her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. the world had made him extravagant and vain--extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. the attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. from a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said-- "there is no use in staying here; i must be off." "are you going back to town?" "no--to combe magna. i have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. good bye." he held out his hand. she could not refuse to give him hers;--he pressed it with affection. "and you do think something better of me than you did?"--said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go. elinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished him well--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. his answer was not very encouraging. "as to that," said he, "i must rub through the world as well as i can. domestic happiness is out of the question. if, however, i am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may be something to live for. marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. were i even by any blessed chance at liberty again--" elinor stopped him with a reproof. "well,"--he replied--"once more good bye. i shall now go away and live in dread of one event." "what do you mean?" "your sister's marriage." "you are very wrong. she can never be more lost to you than she is now." "but she will be gained by some one else. and if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, i could least bear--but i will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that where i have most injured i can least forgive. good bye,--god bless you!" and with these words, he almost ran out of the room. chapter elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister. willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself--to his wishes than to his merits. she felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge. but she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. when at last she returned to the unconscious marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes. elinor's heart was full. the past, the present, the future, willoughby's visit, marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister. short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage.--eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it. mrs. dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost the conviction of marianne's being no more, had no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for elinor; but she, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;--and her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. she was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend;--and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press colonel brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment. he shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own. as soon as mrs. dashwood had recovered herself, to see marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger. elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing marianne of farther sleep;--but mrs. dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her. mrs. dashwood would sit up with her all night; and elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. but the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. willoughby, "poor willoughby," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. but her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. she dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on marianne might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a moment wished willoughby a widower. then, remembering colonel brandon, reproved herself, felt that to his sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than mrs. willoughby's death. the shock of colonel brandon's errand at barton had been much softened to mrs. dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about marianne, that she had already determined to set out for cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the careys were then expected every moment to fetch margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection. marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of mrs. dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. elinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected edward. but mrs. dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment which elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. marianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to willoughby, had contributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by elinor. it was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred. "at last we are alone. my elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness. colonel brandon loves marianne. he has told me so himself." her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention. "you are never like me, dear elinor, or i should wonder at your composure now. had i sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, i should have fixed on colonel brandon's marrying one of you as the object most desirable. and i believe marianne will be the most happy with him of the two." elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile. "he opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. it came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. i, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; i saw that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather, not thinking at all, i suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for marianne. he has loved her, my elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her." here, however, elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions of colonel brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose. "his regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant--which ever we are to call it--has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could he have seen her happy with another--such a noble mind!--such openness, such sincerity!--no one can be deceived in him." "colonel brandon's character," said elinor, "as an excellent man, is well established." "i know it is,"--replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning, i should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it. but his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men." "his character, however," answered elinor, "does not rest on one act of kindness, to which his affection for marianne, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted him. to mrs. jennings, to the middletons, he has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do i value and esteem him, that if marianne can be happy with him, i shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. what answer did you give him?--did you allow him to hope?" "oh! my love, i could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. marianne might at that moment be dying. but he did not ask for hope or encouragement. his was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent. yet after a time i did say, for at first i was quite overcome--that if she lived, as i trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful security, i have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my power. time, a very little time, i tell him, will do everything;--marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as willoughby.-- his own merits must soon secure it." "to judge from the colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine." "no.--he thinks marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. there, however, he is quite mistaken. his age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and his disposition, i am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make your sister happy. and his person, his manners too, are all in his favour. my partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so handsome as willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much more pleasing in his countenance.-- there was always a something,--if you remember,--in willoughby's eyes at times, which i did not like." elinor could not remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her assent, continued, "and his manners, the colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to me than willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind i well know to be more solidly attaching to marianne. their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. i am very sure myself, that had willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, marianne would yet never have been so happy with him, as she will be with colonel brandon." she paused.--her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence. "at delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added mrs. dashwood, "even if i remain at barton; and in all probability,--for i hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly must be some small house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present situation." poor elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to delaford!--but her spirit was stubborn. "his fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares about that;--and though i neither know nor desire to know, what it really is, i am sure it must be a good one." here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for willoughby. chapter marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into mrs. palmer's dressing-room. when there, at her own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother, colonel brandon was invited to visit her. his emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such, as, in elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than his affection for marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance between marianne and eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation. mrs. dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of marianne she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude already dawned. at the end of another day or two, marianne growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, mrs. dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to barton. on her measures depended those of her two friends; mrs. jennings could not quit cleveland during the dashwoods' stay; and colonel brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. at his and mrs. jennings's united request in return, mrs. dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the colonel, at the joint invitation of mrs. dashwood and mrs. jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks. the day of separation and departure arrived; and marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of mrs. jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding colonel brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. mrs. dashwood and elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till mrs. jennings was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young companions; and colonel brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary way to delaford. the dashwoods were two days on the road, and marianne bore her journey on both, without essential fatigue. every thing that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. to elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. she, who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness. as they approached barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. but here, elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. in the whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of willoughby could be connected.--she said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. after dinner she would try her piano-forte. she went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing.--that would not do.--she shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much. the next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. on the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish. "when the weather is settled, and i have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. we will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to sir john's new plantations at barton cross, and the abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. i know we shall be happy. i know the summer will pass happily away. i mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner i shall divide every moment between music and reading. i have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. but there are many works well worth reading at the park; and there are others of more modern production which i know i can borrow of colonel brandon. by reading only six hours a-day, i shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which i now feel myself to want." elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed it. but the resolution was made only to be broken. marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. but at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence; and marianne, leaning on elinor's arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house. the sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, marianne calmly said, "there, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand, "on that projecting mound,--there i fell; and there i first saw willoughby." her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added, "i am thankful to find that i can look with so little pain on the spot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, elinor?"--hesitatingly it was said.--"or will it be wrong?--i can talk of it now, i hope, as i ought to do."-- elinor tenderly invited her to be open. "as for regret," said marianne, "i have done with that, as far as he is concerned. i do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are now.--at present, if i could be satisfied on one point, if i could be allowed to think that he was not always acting a part, not always deceiving me;--but above all, if i could be assured that he never was so very wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl"-- she stopt. elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered, "if you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy." "yes. my peace of mind is doubly involved in it;--for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what he has been to me, of such designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--what in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to"-- "how then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?" "i would suppose him,--oh, how gladly would i suppose him, only fickle, very, very fickle." elinor said no more. she was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till marianne were in stronger health;--and they crept on for a few minutes in silence. "i am not wishing him too much good," said marianne at last with a sigh, "when i wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. he will suffer enough in them." "do you compare your conduct with his?" "no. i compare it with what it ought to have been; i compare it with yours." "our situations have borne little resemblance." "they have borne more than our conduct.--do not, my dearest elinor, let your kindness defend what i know your judgment must censure. my illness has made me think-- it has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. long before i was enough recovered to talk, i was perfectly able to reflect. i considered the past: i saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. i saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. my illness, i well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as i had felt even at the time to be wrong. had i died,--it would have been self-destruction. i did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, i wonder at my recovery,--wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my god, and to you all, did not kill me at once. had i died,--in what peculiar misery should i have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister!--you, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!--how should i have lived in your remembrance!--my mother too! how could you have consoled her!--i cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. whenever i looked towards the past, i saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. every body seemed injured by me. the kindness, the unceasing kindness of mrs. jennings, i had repaid with ungrateful contempt. to the middletons, to the palmers, the steeles, to every common acquaintance even, i had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention.--to john, to fanny,--yes, even to them, little as they deserve, i had given less than their due. but you,--you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. i, and only i, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself.--your example was before me; but to what avail?--was i more considerate of you and your comfort? did i imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone?--no;--not less when i knew you to be unhappy, than when i had believed you at ease, did i turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only that heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom i professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake." here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved. marianne pressed her hand and replied, "you are very good.--the future must be my proof. i have laid down my plan, and if i am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved. they shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. i shall now live solely for my family. you, my mother, and margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you. from you, from my home, i shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if i do mix in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that i can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. as for willoughby--to say that i shall soon or that i shall ever forget him, would be idle. his remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions. but it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment." she paused--and added in a low voice, "if i could but know his heart, everything would become easy." elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact. she managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard. marianne said not a word.--she trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. a thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one. she caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks. elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged. as soon as they entered the house, marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her tears, "tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up stairs. elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting injunction. chapter mrs. dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite. she rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy. but the feelings of the past could not be recalled.--nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to marianne. nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards eliza. nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of colonel brandon. had mrs. dashwood, like her daughter, heard willoughby's story from himself--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater. but it was neither in elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of willoughby's deserts;--she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray. in the evening, when they were all three together, marianne began voluntarily to speak of him again;--but that it was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously sitting--her rising colour, as she spoke,--and her unsteady voice, plainly shewed. "i wish to assure you both," said she, "that i see every thing--as you can desire me to do." mrs. dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. marianne slowly continued-- "it is a great relief to me--what elinor told me this morning--i have now heard exactly what i wished to hear."--for some moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before--"i am now perfectly satisfied, i wish for no change. i never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later i must have known, all this.--i should have had no confidence, no esteem. nothing could have done it away to my feelings." "i know it--i know it," cried her mother. "happy with a man of libertine practices!--with one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men!--no--my marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man!--her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt." marianne sighed, and repeated, "i wish for no change." "you consider the matter," said elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and i dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain. had you married, you must have been always poor. his expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. his demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the less grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. your sense of honour and honesty would have led you, i know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that--and how little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?-- beyond that, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge his enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties?" marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "selfish?" in a tone that implied--"do you really think him selfish?" "the whole of his behaviour," replied elinor, "from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. it was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from barton. his own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle." "it is very true. my happiness never was his object." "at present," continued elinor, "he regrets what he has done. and why does he regret it?--because he finds it has not answered towards himself. it has not made him happy. his circumstances are now unembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. but does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?--the inconveniences would have been different. he would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. he would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife." "i have not a doubt of it," said marianne; "and i have nothing to regret--nothing but my own folly." "rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said mrs. dashwood; "she must be answerable." marianne would not let her proceed;--and elinor, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately continued, "one observation may, i think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story--that all willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to eliza williams. that crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents." marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of colonel brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her. elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following days, that marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health. margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future. elinor grew impatient for some tidings of edward. she had heard nothing of him since her leaving london, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. some letters had passed between her and her brother, in consequence of marianne's illness; and in the first of john's, there had been this sentence:-- "we know nothing of our unfortunate edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at oxford;" which was all the intelligence of edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. she was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures. their man-servant had been sent one morning to exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication-- "i suppose you know, ma'am, that mr. ferrars is married." marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. mrs. dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by elinor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by marianne's situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention. the servant, who saw only that miss marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with mrs. dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room. by that time, marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the care of margaret and the maid, returned to elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. mrs. dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it. "who told you that mr. ferrars was married, thomas?" "i see mr. ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in exeter, and his lady too, miss steele as was. they was stopping in a chaise at the door of the new london inn, as i went there with a message from sally at the park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. i happened to look up as i went by the chaise, and so i see directly it was the youngest miss steele; so i took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially miss marianne, and bid me i should give her compliments and mr. ferrars's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but howsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you." "but did she tell you she was married, thomas?" "yes, ma'am. she smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. she was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved. so, i made free to wish her joy." "was mr. ferrars in the carriage with her?" "yes, ma'am, i just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking." elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward; and mrs. dashwood probably found the same explanation. "was there no one else in the carriage?" "no, ma'am, only they two." "do you know where they came from?" "they come straight from town, as miss lucy--mrs. ferrars told me." "and are they going farther westward?" "yes, ma'am--but not to bide long. they will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here." mrs. dashwood now looked at her daughter; but elinor knew better than to expect them. she recognised the whole of lucy in the message, and was very confident that edward would never come near them. she observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to mr. pratt's, near plymouth. thomas's intelligence seemed over. elinor looked as if she wished to hear more. "did you see them off, before you came away?" "no, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but i could not bide any longer; i was afraid of being late." "did mrs. ferrars look well?" "yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented." mrs. dashwood could think of no other question, and thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more. mrs. dashwood's and elinor's appetites were equally lost, and margaret might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before. when the dessert and the wine were arranged, and mrs. dashwood and elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. mrs. dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. she now found that she had erred in relying on elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for marianne. she found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be. she feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her elinor;--that marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude. chapter elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself. she now found, that in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope, while edward remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marrying lucy; that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all. but he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence. that he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living, surprised her a little at first. but she soon saw how likely it was that lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay. they were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's. what had edward felt on being within four miles from barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing lucy's message! they would soon, she supposed, be settled at delaford.--delaford,--that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. she saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices;--pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of colonel brandon, of mrs. jennings, and of every wealthy friend. in edward--she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see;--happy or unhappy,--nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him. elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in london would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend. they were all thoughtless or indolent. "when do you write to colonel brandon, ma'am?" was an inquiry which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on. "i wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to hear from him again. i earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day." this was gaining something, something to look forward to. colonel brandon must have some information to give. scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the window. he stopt at their gate. it was a gentleman, it was colonel brandon himself. now she could hear more; and she trembled in expectation of it. but--it was not colonel brandon--neither his air--nor his height. were it possible, she must say it must be edward. she looked again. he had just dismounted;--she could not be mistaken,--it was edward. she moved away and sat down. "he comes from mr. pratt's purposely to see us. i will be calm; i will be mistress of myself." in a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake. she saw her mother and marianne change colour; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. she would have given the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion. not a syllable passed aloud. they all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor. his footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them. his countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for elinor. his complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. mrs. dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy. he coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. elinor's lips had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. but it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather. marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her distress; and margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence. when elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place. it was put an end to by mrs. dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left mrs. ferrars very well. in a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative. another pause. elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said, "is mrs. ferrars at longstaple?" "at longstaple!" he replied, with an air of surprise.-- "no, my mother is in town." "i meant," said elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to inquire for mrs. edward ferrars." she dared not look up;--but her mother and marianne both turned their eyes on him. he coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said,-- "perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean mrs.--mrs. robert ferrars." "mrs. robert ferrars!"--was repeated by marianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement;--and though elinor could not speak, even her eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. he rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice, "perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to--to the youngest--to miss lucy steele." his words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was. "yes," said he, "they were married last week, and are now at dawlish." elinor could sit it no longer. she almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease. edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw--or even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of mrs. dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village--leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden;--a perplexity which they had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures. chapter unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was certain that edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all;--for after experiencing the blessings of one imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of that, than the immediate contraction of another. his errand at barton, in fact, was a simple one. it was only to ask elinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air. how soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told. this only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. his situation indeed was more than commonly joyful. he had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits. he was released without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;--and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. he was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness;--and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before. his heart was now open to elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four. "it was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the consequence of ignorance of the world--and want of employment. had my mother given me some active profession when i was removed at eighteen from the care of mr. pratt, i think--nay, i am sure, it would never have happened; for though i left longstaple with what i thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had i then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, i should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case i must have done. but instead of having any thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any myself, i returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards i had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would have given me; for i was not entered at oxford till i was nineteen. i had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as i had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at longstaple, where i always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly i spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. she was pretty too--at least i thought so then; and i had seen so little of other women, that i could make no comparisons, and see no defects. considering everything, therefore, i hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly." the change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night. mrs. dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to love edward, nor praise elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both. marianne could speak her happiness only by tears. comparisons would occur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language. but elinor--how are her feelings to be described?--from the moment of learning that lucy was married to another, that edward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil. but when the second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw him honourably released from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity;--and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart. edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of elinor's company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is different. between them no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over. lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard. how they could be thrown together, and by what attraction robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,--a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond her comprehension to make out. to her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle. edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest. elinor remembered what robert had told her in harley street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time. she repeated it to edward. "that was exactly like robert,"--was his immediate observation.--"and that," he presently added, "might perhaps be in his head when the acquaintance between them first began. and lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. other designs might afterward arise." how long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting london, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. he put the letter into elinor's hands. "dear sir, "being very sure i have long lost your affections, i have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with him as i once used to think i might be with you; but i scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another's. sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. i can safely say i owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought i would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain, "your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister, "lucy ferrars. "i have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. please to destroy my scrawls--but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep." elinor read and returned it without any comment. "i will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said edward.--"for worlds would not i have had a letter of hers seen by you in former days.--in a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!--how i have blushed over the pages of her writing!--and i believe i may say that since the first half year of our foolish--business--this is the only letter i ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style." "however it may have come about," said elinor, after a pause,--"they are certainly married. and your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. the independence she settled on robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. she will hardly be less hurt, i suppose, by robert's marrying lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her." "she will be more hurt by it, for robert always was her favourite.--she will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner." in what state the affair stood at present between them, edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. he had quitted oxford within four and twenty hours after lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. he could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with miss dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking that fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of colonel brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. it was his business, however, to say that he did, and he said it very prettily. what he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives. that lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by thomas, was perfectly clear to elinor; and edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. though his eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions--they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him. "i thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when i was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to assist me. in such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how could i suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most disinterested affection was her inducement? and even now, i cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. she could not foresee that colonel brandon would give me a living." "no; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour; that your own family might in time relent. and at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. the connection was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry you than be single." edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been more natural than lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it. elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy. "your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because--to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to fancy and expect what, as you were then situated, could never be." he could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement. "i was simple enough to think, that because my faith was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour. i felt that i admired you, but i told myself it was only friendship; and till i began to make comparisons between yourself and lucy, i did not know how far i was got. after that, i suppose, i was wrong in remaining so much in sussex, and the arguments with which i reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than these:--the danger is my own; i am doing no injury to anybody but myself." elinor smiled, and shook her head. edward heard with pleasure of colonel brandon's being expected at the cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him the living of delaford--"which, at present," said he, "after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he must think i have never forgiven him for offering." now he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place. but so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to elinor herself, who had heard so much of it from colonel brandon, and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject. one question after this only remained undecided, between them, one difficulty only was to be overcome. they were brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain--and they only wanted something to live upon. edward had two thousand pounds, and elinor one, which, with delaford living, was all that they could call their own; for it was impossible that mrs. dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year would supply them with the comforts of life. edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his mother towards him; and on that he rested for the residue of their income. but elinor had no such dependence; for since edward would still be unable to marry miss morton, and his chusing herself had been spoken of in mrs. ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil than his chusing lucy steele, she feared that robert's offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich fanny. about four days after edward's arrival colonel brandon appeared, to complete mrs. dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her living at barton, more company with her than her house would hold. edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and colonel brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters at the park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete before breakfast. a three weeks' residence at delaford, where, in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to barton in a temper of mind which needed all the improvement in marianne's looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to make it cheerful. among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive. no rumour of lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. every thing was explained to him by mrs. dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for mr. ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest of elinor. it would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. their resemblance in good principles and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment. the letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve in elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with less emotion than mirth. mrs. jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor mr. edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at oxford.-- "i do think," she continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of mrs. ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to plymouth; for lucy it seems borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor nancy had not seven shillings in the world;--so i was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with mrs. burgess, in hopes, as i tell her, to fall in with the doctor again. and i must say that lucy's crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is worse than all. poor mr. edward! i cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to barton, and miss marianne must try to comfort him." mr. dashwood's strains were more solemn. mrs. ferrars was the most unfortunate of women--poor fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder. robert's offence was unpardonable, but lucy's was infinitely worse. neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to mrs. ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. the secrecy with which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage; and he called on elinor to join with him in regretting that lucy's engagement with edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family.-- he thus continued: "mrs. ferrars has never yet mentioned edward's name, which does not surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been received from him on the occasion. perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and i shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to oxford, that his sister and i both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to fanny, and by her shewn to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of mrs. ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children." this paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of edward. it determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister. "a letter of proper submission!" repeated he; "would they have me beg my mother's pardon for robert's ingratitude to her, and breach of honour to me?--i can make no submission--i am grown neither humble nor penitent by what has passed.--i am grown very happy; but that would not interest.--i know of no submission that is proper for me to make." "you may certainly ask to be forgiven," said elinor, "because you have offended;--and i should think you might now venture so far as to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on you your mother's anger." he agreed that he might. "and when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent in her eyes as the first." he had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him, as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to fanny, he should go to london, and personally intreat her good offices in his favour.-- "and if they really do interest themselves," said marianne, in her new character of candour, "in bringing about a reconciliation, i shall think that even john and fanny are not entirely without merit." after a visit on colonel brandon's side of only three or four days, the two gentlemen quitted barton together.-- they were to go immediately to delaford, that edward might have some personal knowledge of his future home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town. chapter after a proper resistance on the part of mrs. ferrars, just so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, edward was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son. her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. for many years of her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of edward, she had one again. in spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before. with apprehensive caution therefore it was revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. mrs. ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying miss dashwood, by every argument in her power;--told him, that in miss morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;--and enforced the assertion, by observing that miss morton was the daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while miss dashwood was only the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than three; but when she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit--and therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she issued her decree of consent to the marriage of edward and elinor. what she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though edward was now her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while robert was inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest objection was made against edward's taking orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had been given with fanny. it was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by edward and elinor; and mrs. ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more. with an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them, they had nothing to wait for after edward was in possession of the living, but the readiness of the house, to which colonel brandon, with an eager desire for the accommodation of elinor, was making considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, elinor, as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in barton church early in the autumn. the first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;--could chuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. mrs. jennings's prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit edward and his wife in their parsonage by michaelmas, and she found in elinor and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the world. they had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of colonel brandon and marianne, and rather better pasturage for their cows. they were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations and friends. mrs. ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the dashwoods were at the expense of a journey from sussex to do them honour. "i will not say that i am disappointed, my dear sister," said john, as they were walking together one morning before the gates of delaford house, "that would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. but, i confess, it would give me great pleasure to call colonel brandon brother. his property here, his place, his house, every thing is in such respectable and excellent condition!--and his woods!--i have not seen such timber any where in dorsetshire, as there is now standing in delaford hanger!--and though, perhaps, marianne may not seem exactly the person to attract him--yet i think it would altogether be advisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as colonel brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen--for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of anybody else--and it will always be in your power to set her off to advantage, and so forth;--in short, you may as well give her a chance--you understand me."-- but though mrs. ferrars did come to see them, and always treated them with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her real favour and preference. that was due to the folly of robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many months had passed away. the selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at first drawn robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled mrs. ferrars to his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour. the whole of lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and conscience. when robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately visited her in bartlett's buildings, it was only with the view imputed to him by his brother. he merely meant to persuade her to give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle the matter. in that point, however, and that only, he erred;--for though lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in time, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to produce this conviction. some doubts always lingered in her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour's discourse with himself. his attendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed in course. instead of talking of edward, they came gradually to talk only of robert,--a subject on which he had always more to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother. he was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking edward, and very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. what immediately followed is known. they passed some months in great happiness at dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut--and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages;--and from thence returning to town, procured the forgiveness of mrs. ferrars, by the simple expedient of asking it, which, at lucy's instigation, was adopted. the forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only robert; and lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. but perseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in self-condemnation for robert's offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence. lucy became as necessary to mrs. ferrars, as either robert or fanny; and while edward was never cordially forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, she was in every thing considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child. they settled in town, received very liberal assistance from mrs. ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable with the dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between fanny and lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between robert and lucy themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together. what edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have puzzled many people to find out; and what robert had done to succeed to it, might have puzzled them still more. it was an arrangement, however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in robert's style of living or of talking to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange. elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well be contrived, without rendering the cottage at barton entirely useless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with her. mrs. dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at delaford; for her wish of bringing marianne and colonel brandon together was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal than what john had expressed. it was now her darling object. precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see marianne settled at the mansion-house was equally the wish of edward and elinor. they each felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of all. with such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of his goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody else--burst on her--what could she do? marianne dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. she was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. she was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another!--and that other, a man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years before, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat! but so it was. instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,--instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village. colonel brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him, believed he deserved to be;--in marianne he was consoled for every past affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that marianne found her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend. marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had once been to willoughby. willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of mrs. smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he behaved with honour towards marianne, he might at once have been happy and rich. that his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he long thought of colonel brandon with envy, and of marianne with regret. but that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be depended on--for he did neither. he lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy himself. his wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity. for marianne, however--in spite of his incivility in surviving her loss--he always retained that decided regard which interested him in every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman;--and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him in after-days as bearing no comparison with mrs. brandon. mrs. dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without attempting a removal to delaford; and fortunately for sir john and mrs. jennings, when marianne was taken from them, margaret had reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being supposed to have a lover. between barton and delaford, there was that constant communication which strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the merits and the happiness of elinor and marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands. the end from squire to squatter a tale of the old land and the new by gordon stables published by john f. shaw and co., paternoster row, london. this edition dated . chapter one. book i--at burley old farm. "ten to-morrow, archie." "so you'll be ten years old to-morrow, archie?" "yes, father; ten to-morrow. quite old, isn't it? i'll soon be a man, dad. won't it be fun, just?" his father laughed, simply because archie laughed. "i don't know about the fun of it," he said; "for, archie lad, your growing a man will result in my getting old. don't you see?" archie turned his handsome brown face towards the fire, and gazed at it--or rather into it--for a few moments thoughtfully. then he gave his head a little negative kind of a shake, and, still looking towards the fire as if addressing it, replied: "no, no, no; i don't see it. other boys' fathers _may_ grow old; mine won't, mine couldn't, never, _never_." "dad," said a voice from the corner. it was a very weary, rather feeble, voice. the owner of it occupied a kind of invalid couch, on which he half sat and half reclined--a lad of only nine years, with a thin, pale, old-fashioned face, and big, dark, dreamy eyes that seemed to look you through and through as you talked to him. "dad." "yes, my dear." "wouldn't you like to be old really?" "wel--," the father was beginning. "oh," the boy went on, "i should dearly love to be old, very old, and very wise, like one of these!" here his glance reverted to a story-book he had been reading, and which now lay on his lap. his father and mother were used to the boy's odd remarks. both parents sat here to-night, and both looked at him with a sort of fond pity; but the child's eyes had half closed, and presently he dropped out of the conversation, and to all intents and purposes out of the company. "yes," said archie, "ten is terribly old, i know; but is it quite a man though? because mummie there said, that when solomon became a man, he thought, and spoke, and did everything manly, and put away all his boy's things. i shouldn't like to put away my bow and arrow--what say, mum? i shan't be altogether quite a man to-morrow, shall i?" "no, child. who put that in your head?" "oh, rupert, of course! rupert tells me everything, and dreams such strange dreams for me." "you're a strange boy yourself, archie." his mother had been leaning back in her chair. she now slowly resumed her knitting. the firelight fell on her face: it was still young, still beautiful--for the lady was but little over thirty--yet a shade of melancholy had overspread it to-night. the firelight came from huge logs of wood, mingled with large pieces of blazing coals and masses of half-incandescent peat. a more cheerful fire surely never before burned on a hearth. it seemed to take a pride in being cheerful, and in making all sorts of pleasant noises and splutterings. there had been bark on those logs when first heaped on, and long white bunches of lichen, that looked like old men's beards; but tongues of fire from the bubbling, caking coals had soon licked those off, so that both sticks and peat were soon aglow, and the whole looked as glorious as an autumn sunset. and firelight surely never before fell on cosier room, nor on cosier old-world furniture. dark pictures, in great gilt frames, hung on the walls, almost hiding it; dark pictures, but with bright colours standing out in them, which time himself had not been able to dim; albeit he had cracked the varnish. pictures you could look into--look in through almost--and imagine figures that perhaps were not in them at all; pictures of old-fashioned places, with quaint, old-fashioned people and animals; pictures in which every creature or human being looked contented and happy. pictures from masters' hands many of them, and worth far more than their weight in solid gold. and the firelight fell on curious brackets, and on a tall corner-cabinet filled with old delf and china; fell on high, narrow-backed chairs, and on one huge carved-oak chest that took your mind away back to centuries long gone by and made you half believe that there must have been "giants in those days." the firelight fell and was reflected from silver cups, and goblets, and candlesticks, and a glittering shield that stood on a sideboard, their presence giving relief to the eye. heavy, cosy-looking curtains depended from the window cornices, and the door itself was darkly draped. "ten to-morrow. how time does fly!" it was the father who now spoke, and as he did so his hand was stretched out as if instinctively, till it lay on the mother's lap. their eyes met, and there seemed something of sadness in the smile of each. "how time does fly!" "dad!" the voice came once more from the corner. "dad! for years and years i've noticed that you always take mummie's hand and just look like that on the night before archie's birthday. father, why--" but at that very moment the firelight found something else to fall upon--something brighter and fairer by far than anything it had lit up to-night. for the door-curtain was drawn back, and a little, wee, girlish figure advanced on tiptoe and stood smiling in the middle of the room, looking from one to the other. this was elsie, rupert's twin-sister. his "beautiful sister" the boy called her, and she was well worthy of the compliment. only for a moment did she stand there, but as she did so, with her bonnie bright face, she seemed the one thing that had been needed to complete the picture, the centre figure against the sombre, almost solemn, background. the fire blazed more merrily now; a jet of white smoke, that had been spinning forth from a little mound of melting coal, jumped suddenly into flame; while the biggest log cracked like a popgun, and threw off a great red spark, which flew half-way across the room. next instant a wealth of dark-brown hair fell on archie's shoulder, and soft lips were pressed to his sun-dyed cheek, then bright, laughing eyes looked into his. "ten to-morrow, archie! _aren't_ you proud?" elsie now took a footstool, and sat down close beside her invalid brother, stretching one arm across his chest protectingly; but she shook her head at archie from her corner. "ten to-morrow, you great big, big brother archie," she said. archie laughed right merrily. "what are you going to do all?" "oh, such a lot of things! first of all, if it snows--" "it is snowing now, archie, fast." "well then i'm going to shoot the fox that stole poor cock jock. oh, my poor cock jock! we'll never see him again." "shooting foxes isn't sport, archie." "no, dad; it's revenge." the father shook his head. "well, i mean something else." "justice?" "yes, that is it. justice, dad. oh, i did love that cock so! he was so gentlemanly and gallant, father. oh, so kind! and the fox seized him just as poor jock was carrying a crust of bread to the old hen ann. he threw my bonnie bird over his shoulder and ran off, looking so sly and wicked. but i mean to kill him! "last time i fired off branson's gun was at a magpie, a nasty, chattering, unlucky magpie. old kate says they're unlucky." "did you kill the magpie, archie?" "no, i don't think i hurt the magpie. the gun must have gone off when i wasn't looking; but it knocked me down, and blackened all my shoulder, because it pushed so. branson said i didn't grasp it tight enough. but i will to-morrow, when i'm killing the fox. rupert, you'll stuff the head, and we'll hang it in the hall. won't you, roup?" rupert smiled and nodded. "and i'm sure," he continued, "the ann hen was so sorry when she saw poor cock jock carried away." "did the ann hen eat the crust?" "what, father? oh, yes, she did eat the crust! but i think that was only out of politeness. i'm sure it nearly choked her." "well, archie, what will you do else to-morrow?" "oh, then, you know, elsie, the fun will only just be beginning, because we're going to open the north tower of the castle. it's already furnished." "and you're going to be installed as king of the north tower?" said his father. "installed, father? rupert, what does that mean?" "led in with honours, i suppose." "oh, father, i'll instal myself; or sissie there will; or old kate; or branson, the keeper, will instal me. that's easy. the fun will all come after that." burley old farm, as it was called--and sometimes burley castle--was, at the time our story opens, in the heyday of its glory and beauty. squire broadbent, archie's father, had been on it for a dozen years and over. it was all his own, and had belonged to a bachelor uncle before his time. this uncle had never made the slightest attempt to cause two blades of grass to grow where only one had grown before. not he. he was well content to live on the little estate, as his father had done before him, so long as things paid their way; so long as plenty of sleek beasts were seen in the fields in summer, or wading knee-deep in the straw-yard in winter; so long as pigs, and poultry, and feather stock of every conceivable sort, made plenty of noise about the farm-steading, and there was plenty of human life about, the old squire had been content. and why shouldn't he have been? what does a north-country farmer need, or what has he any right to long for, if his larder and coffers are both well filled, and he can have a day on the stubble or moor, and ride to the hounds when the crops are in? but his nephew was more ambitious. the truth is he came from the south, and brought with him what the honest farmer folks of the northumbrian borders call a deal of new-fangled notions. he had come from the south himself, and he had not been a year in the place before he went back, and in due time returned to burley old farm with a bonnie young bride. of course there were people in the neighbourhood who did not hesitate to say, that the squire might have married nearer home, and that there was no accounting for taste. for all this and all that, both the squire and his wife were not long in making themselves universal favourites all round the countryside; for they went everywhere, and did everything; and the neighbours were all welcome to call at burley when they liked, and had to call when mrs broadbent issued invitations. well, the squire's dinners were truly excellent, and when afterwards the men folk joined the ladies in the big drawing-room, the evenings flew away so quickly that, as carriage time came, nobody could ever believe it was anything like so late. the question of what the squire had been previously to his coming to burley was sometimes asked by comparative strangers, but as nobody could or cared to answer explicitly, it was let drop. something in the south, in or about london, or deal, or dover, but what did it matter? he was "a jolly good fellow--ay, and a gentleman every inch." such was the verdict. a gentleman the squire undoubtedly was, though not quite the type of build, either in body or mind, of the tall, bony, and burly men of the north--men descended from a race of ever-unconquered soldiers, and probably more akin to the scotch than the english. sitting here in the green parlour to-night, with the firelight playing on his smiling face as he talked to or teased his eldest boy, squire broadbent was seen to advantage. not big in body, and rather round than angular, inclining even to the portly, with a frank, rosy face and a bold blue eye, you could not have been in his company ten minutes without feeling sorry you had not known him all his life. amiability was the chief characteristic of mrs broadbent. she was a refined and genuine english lady. there is little more to say after that. but what about the squire's new-fangled notions? well, they were really what they call "fads" now-a-days, or, taken collectively, they were one gigantic fad. although he had never been in the agricultural interest before he became squire, even while in city chambers theoretical farming had been his pet study, and he made no secret of it to his fellow-men. "this uncle of mine," he would say, "whom i go to see every christmas, is pretty old, and i'm his heir. mind," he would add, "he is a genuine, good man, and i'll be genuinely sorry for him when he goes under. but that is the way of the world, and then i'll have my fling. my uncle hasn't done the best for his land; he has been content to go--not run; there is little running about the dear old boy--in the same groove as his fathers, but i'm going to cut out a new one." the week that the then mr broadbent was in the habit of spending with his uncle, in the festive season, was not the only holiday he took in the year. no; for regularly as the month of april came round, he started for the states of america, and england saw no more of him till well on in june, by which time the hot weather had driven him home. but he swore by the yankees; that is, he would have sworn by them, had he sworn at all. the yankees in mr broadbent's opinion were far ahead of the english in everything pertaining to the economy of life, and the best manner of living. he was too much of a john bull to admit that the americans possessed any superiority over this tight little isle, in the matter of either politics or knowledge of warfare. england always had been, and always would be, mistress of the seas, and master of and over every country with a foreshore on it. "but," he would say, "look at the yanks as inventors. why, sir, they beat us in everything from button-hook. look at them as farmers, especially as wheat growers and fruit raisers. they are as far above englishmen, with their insular prejudices, and insular dread of taking a step forward for fear of going into a hole, as a berkshire steam ploughman is ahead of a skyeman with his wooden turf-turner. and look at them at home round their own firesides, or look at their houses outside and in, and you will have some faint notion of what comfort combined with luxury really means." it will be observed that mr broadbent had a bold, straightforward way of talking to his peers. he really had, and it will be seen presently that he had, "the courage of his own convictions," to use a hackneyed phrase. he brought those convictions with him to burley, and the courage also. why, in a single year--and a busy, bustling one it had been--the new squire had worked a revolution about the place. lucky for him, he had a well-lined purse to begin with, or he could hardly have come to the root of things, or made such radical reforms as he did. when he first took a look round the farm-steading, he felt puzzled where to begin first. but he went to work steadily, and kept it up, and it is truly wonderful what an amount of solid usefulness can be effected by either man or boy, if he has the courage to adopt such a plan. chapter two. a chip of the old block. it was no part of squire broadbent's plan to turn away old and faithful servants. he had to weed them though, and this meant thinning out to such an extent that not over many were left. the young and healthy creatures of inutility had to shift; but the very old, the decrepit--those who had become stiff and grey in his uncle's service--were pensioned off. they were to stay for the rest of their lives in the rural village adown the glen--bask in the sun in summer, sit by the fire of a winter, and talk of the times when "t'old squire was aboot." the servants settled with, and fresh ones with suitable "go" in them established in their place, the live stock came in for reformation. "saint mary! what a medley!" exclaimed the squire, as he walked through the byres and stables, and past the styes. "everything bred anyhow. no method in my uncle's madness. no rules followed, no type. why the quickest plan will be to put them all to the hammer." this was cutting the gordian-knot with a vengeance, but it was perhaps best in the long run. next came renovation of the farm-steading itself; pulling down and building, enlarging, and what not, and while this was going on, the land itself was not being forgotten. fences were levelled and carted away, and newer and airier ones put up, and for the most part three and sometimes even five fields were opened into one. there were woods also to be seen to. the new squire liked woods, but the trees in some of these were positively poisoning each other. here was a larch-wood, for instance--those logs with the long, grey lichens on them are part of some of the trees. so closely do the larches grow together, so white with moss, so stunted and old-looking, that it would have made a merry-andrew melancholy to walk among them. what good were they? down they must come, and down they had come; and after the ground had been stirred up a bit, and left for a summer to let the sunshine and air into it, all the hill was replanted with young, green, smiling pines, larches, and spruces, and that was assuredly an improvement. in a few years the trees were well advanced; grass and primroses grew where the moss had crept about, and the wood in spring was alive with the song of birds. the mansion-house had been left intact. nothing could have added much to the beauty of that. it stood high up on a knoll, with rising park-like fields behind, and at some considerable distance the blue slate roofs of the farm-steading peeping up through the greenery of the trees. a solid yellow-grey house, with sturdy porch before the hall door, and sturdy mullioned windows, one wing ivy-clad, a broad sweep of gravel in front, and beyond that, lawns and terraces, and flower and rose gardens. and the whole overlooked a river or stream, that went winding away clear and silvery till it lost itself in wooded glens. the scenery was really beautiful all round, and in some parts even wild; while the distant views of the cheviot hills lent a charm to everything. there was something else held sacred by the squire as well as the habitable mansion, and that was burley old castle. undoubtedly a fortress of considerable strength it had been in bygone days, when the wild scots used to come raiding here, but there was no name for it now save that of a "ruin." the great north tower still stood firm and bold, and three walls of the lordly hall, its floor green with long, rank grass; the walls themselves partly covered with ivy, with broom growing on the top, which was broad enough for the half-wild goats to scamper along. there was also the _donjon_ keep, and the remains of a _fosse_; but all the rest of this feudal castle had been unceremoniously carted away, to erect cowsheds and pig-styes with it. "so sinks the pride of former days, when glory's thrill is o'er." no, squire broadbent did not interfere with the castle; he left it to the goats and to archie, who took to it as a favourite resort from the time he could crawl. but these--all these--new-fangled notions the neighbouring squires and farmers bold could easily have forgiven, had broadbent not carried his craze for machinery to the very verge of folly. so _they_ thought. such things might be all very well in america, but they were not called for here. extraordinary mills driven by steam, no less wonderful-looking harrows, uncanny-like drags and drilling machines, sowing and reaping machines that were fearfully and wonderfully made, and ploughs that, like the mills, were worked by steam. terrible inventions these; and even the men that were connected with them had to be brought from the far south, and did not talk a homely, wholesome _lingua_, nor live in a homely, wholesome way. his neighbours confessed that his crops were heavier, and the cereals and roots finer; but they said to each other knowingly, "what about the expense of down-put?" and as far as their own fields went, the plough-boy still whistled to and from his work. then the new live stock, why, type was followed; type was everything in the squire's eye and opinion. no matter what they were, horses, cattle, pigs, sheep, and feather stock, even the dogs and birds were the best and purest of the sort to be had. but for all the head-shaking there had been at first, things really appeared to prosper with the squire; his big, yellow-painted wagons, with their fine clydesdale horses, were as well known in the district and town of b--as the brewer's dray itself. the "nags" were capitally harnessed. what with jet-black, shining leather, brass-work that shone like burnished gold, and crimson-flashing fringes, it was no wonder that the men who drove them were proud, and that they were favourites at every house of call. even the bailiff himself, on his spirited hunter, looked imposing with his whip in his hand, and in his spotless cords. breakfast at burley was a favourite meal, and a pretty early one, and the capital habit of inviting friends thereto was kept up. mrs broadbent's tea was something to taste and remember; while the cold beef, or that early spring lamb on the sideboard, would have converted the veriest vegetarian as soon as he clapped eyes on it. on his spring lamb the squire rather prided himself, and he liked his due meed of praise for having reared it. to be sure he got it; though some of the straightforward northumbrians would occasionally quizzingly enquire what it cost him to put on the table. squire broadbent would not get out of temper whatever was said, and really, to do the man justice, it must be allowed that there was a glorious halo of self-reliance around his head; and altogether such spirit, dash, and independence with all he said and did, that those who breakfasted with him seemed to catch the infection. their farms and they themselves appeared quite behind the times, when viewed in comparison with broadbent's and with broadbent himself. if ever a father was loved and admired by a son, the squire was that man, and archie was that particular son. his father was archie's _beau ideal_ indeed of all that was worth being, or saying, or knowing, in this world; and rupert's as well. he really was his boys' hero, but behaved more to them as if he had been just a big brother. it was a great grief to both of them that rupert could not join in their games out on the lawn in summer--the little cricket matches, the tennis tournaments, the jumping, and romping, and racing. the tutor was younger than the squire by many years, but he could not beat him in any manly game you could mention. yes, it was sad about rupert; but with all the little lad's suffering and weariness, he was _such_ a sunny-faced chap. he never complained, and when sturdy, great, brown-faced archie carried him out as if he had been a baby, and laid him on the couch where he could witness the games, he was delighted beyond description. i'm quite sure that the squire often and often kept on playing longer than he would otherwise have done just to please the child, as he was generally called. as for elsie, she did all her brother did, and a good deal more besides, and yet no one could have called her a tom girl. as the squire was archie's hero, i suppose the boy could not help taking after his hero to some extent; but it was not only surprising but even amusing to notice how like to his "dad" in all his ways archie had at the age of ten become. the same in walk, the same in talk, the same in giving his opinion, and the same in bright, determined looks. archie really was what his father's friends called him, "a chip of the old block." he was a kind of a lad, too, that grown-up men folks could not help having a good, romping lark with. not a young farmer that ever came to the place could have beaten archie at a race; but when some of them did get hold of him out on the lawn of an evening, then there would be a bit of fun, and archie was in it. these burly northumbrians would positively play a kind of pitch and toss with him, standing in a square or triangle and throwing him back and fore as if he had been a cricket ball. and there was one very tall, wiry young fellow who treated archie as if he had been a sort of dumb-bell, and took any amount of exercise out of him; holding him high aloft with one hand, swaying him round and round and up and down, changing hands, and, in a word, going through as many motions with the laughing boy as if he had been inanimate. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i do not think that archie ever dressed more quickly in his life, than he did on the morning of that auspicious day which saw him ten years old. to tell the truth, he had never been very much struck over the benefits of early rising, especially on mornings in winter. the parting between the boy and his warm bed was often of a most affecting character. the servant would knock, and the gong would go, and sometimes he would even hear his father's voice in the hall before he made up his mind to tear himself away. but on this particular morning, no sooner had he rubbed his eyes and began to remember things, than he sprang nimbly to the floor. the bath was never a terrible ordeal to archie, as it is to some lads. he liked it because it made him feel light and buoyant, and made him sing like the happy birds in spring time; but to-day he did think it would be a saving of time to omit it. yes, but it would be cowardly, and on this morning of all mornings; so in he plunged, and plied the sponge manfully. he did not draw up the blinds till well-nigh dressed. for all he could see when he did do so, he might as well have left them down. the windows--the month was january--were hard frozen; had it been any other day, he would have paused to admire the beautiful frost foliage and frost ferns that nature had etched on the panes. he blew his breath on the glass instead, and made a clean round hole thereon. glorious! it had been snowing pretty heavily, but now the sky was clear. the footprints of the wily fox could be tracked. archie would follow him to his den in the wild woods, and his skye terriers would unearth him. then the boy knelt to pray, just reviewing the past for a short time before he did so, and thinking what a deal he had to be thankful for; how kind the good father was to have given him such parents, such a beautiful home, and such health, and thinking too what a deal he had to be sorry for in the year that was gone; then he gave thanks, and prayer for strength to resist temptation in the time to come; and, it is needless to say, he prayed for poor invalid rupert. when he got up from his knees he heard the great gong sounded, and smiled to himself to think how early he was. then he blew on the pane and looked out again. the sky was blue and clear, and there was not a breath of wind; the trees on the lawn, laden with their weight of powdery snow, their branches bending earthwards, especially the larches and spruces, were a sight to see. and the snow-covered lawn itself, oh, how beautiful! archie wondered if the streets of heaven even could be more pure, more dazzlingly white. whick, whick, whick, whir-r-r-r-r! it was a big yellow-billed blackbird, that flew out with startled cry from a small austrian pine tree. as it did so, a cloud of powdery snow rose in the air, showing how hard the frost was. early though it was--only a little past eight--archie found his father and mother in the breakfast-room, and greetings and blessings fell on his head; brief but tender. by-and-bye the tutor came in, looking tired; and archie exulted over him, as cocks crow over a fallen foe, because he was down first. mr walton was a young man of five or six and twenty, and had been in the family for over three years, so he was quite an old friend. moreover, he was a man after the squire's own heart; he was manly, and taught archie manliness, and had a quiet way of helping him out of every difficulty of thought or action. besides, archie and rupert liked him. after breakfast archie went up to see his brother, then downstairs, and straight away out through the servants' hall to the barn-yards. he had showers of blessings, and not a few gifts from the servants; but old scotch kate was most sincere, for this somewhat aged spinster really loved the lad. at the farm-steading he had many friends to see, both hairy and feathered. he found some oats, which he scattered among the last, and laughed to see them scramble, and to hear them talk. well, archie at all events believed firmly that fowls can converse. one very lovely red game bird, came boldly up and pecked his oats from archie's palm. this was the new cock jock, a son of the old bird, which the fox had taken. the ann hen was there too. she was bold, and bonnie, and saucy, and seemed quite to have given up mourning for her lost lord. ann came at archie's call, flew on to his wrist, and after steadying herself and grumbling a little because archie moved his arm too much, she shoved her head and neck into the boy's pocket, and found oats in abundance. that was ann's way of doing business, and she preferred it. the ducks were insolent and noisy; the geese, instead of taking higher views of life, as they are wont to do, bent down their stately necks, and went in for the scramble with the rest. the hen turkeys grumbled a great deal, but got their share nevertheless; while the great gobbler strutted around doing attitudes, and rustling himself, his neck and head blood-red and blue, and every feather as stiff as an oyster-shell. he looked like some indian chief arrayed for the war-path. having hurriedly fed his feathered favourites, archie went bounding off to let out a few dogs. he opened the door and went right into their house, and the consequence was that one of the newfoundlands threw him over in the straw, and licked his face; and the skye terriers came trooping round, and they also paid their addresses to him, some of the young ones jumping over his head, while archie could do nothing for laughing. when he got up he sang out "attention!" and lo! and behold the dogs, every one looking wiser than another, some with their considering-caps on apparently, and their heads held knowingly to one side. "attention!" cried the boy. "i am going to-day to shoot the fox that ran off with the hen ann's husband. i shall want some of you. you bounder, and you little fuss, and you tackier, come." and come those three dogs did, while the rest, with lowered tails and pitiful looks, slunk away to their straw. bounder was an enormous newfoundland, and fuss and tackier were terriers, the former a skye, the latter a very tiny but exceedingly game yorkie. yonder, gun on shoulder, came tall, stately branson, the keeper, clad in velveteen, with gaiters on. branson was a northumbrian, and a grand specimen too. he might have been somewhat slow of speech, but he was not slow to act whenever it came to a scuffle with poachers, and this last was not an unfrequent occurrence. "my gun, branson?" "it's in the kitchen, master archie, clean and ready; and old kate has put a couple of corks in it, for fear it should go off." "oh, it is loaded then--really loaded!" "ay, lad; and i've got to teach you how to carry it. this is your first day on the hill, mind, and a rough one it is." archie soon got his leggings on, and his shot-belt and shooting-cap and everything else, in true sportsman fashion. "what!" he said at the hall door, when he met mr walton, "am i to have my tutor with me _to-day_?" he put strong emphasis on the last word. "you know, mr walton, that i am ten to-day. i suppose i am conceited, but i almost feel a man." his tutor laughed, but by no means offensively. "my dear archie, i _am_ going to the hill; but don't imagine i'm going as your tutor, or to look after you. oh, no! i want to go as your friend." this certainly put a different complexion on the matter. archie considered for a moment, then replied, with charming condescension: "oh, yes, of course, mr walton! you are welcome, i'm sure, to come _as a friend_." chapter three. a day of adventure. if we have any tears all ready to flow, it is satisfactory to know that they will not be required at present. if we have poetic fire and genius, even these gifts may for the time being be held in reservation. no "ode to a dying fox" or "elegy on the death and burial of reynard" will be necessary. for reynard did not die; nor was he shot; at least, not sufficiently shot. in one sense this was a pity. it resulted in mingled humiliation and bitterness for archie and for the dogs. he had pictured to himself a brief moment of triumph when he should return from the chase, bearing in his hand the head of his enemy--the murderer of the ann hen's husband-- and having the brush sticking out of his jacket pocket; return to be crowned, figuratively speaking, with festive laurel by elsie, his sister, and looked upon by all the servants with a feeling of awe as a future nimrod. in another sense it was not a pity; that is, for the fox. this sable gentleman had enjoyed a good run, which made him hungry, and as happy as only a fox can be who knows the road through the woods and wilds to a distant burrow, where a bed of withered weeds awaits him, and where a nice fat hen is hidden. when reynard had eaten his dinner and licked his chops, he laid down to sleep, no doubt laughing in his paw at the boy's futile efforts to capture or kill him, and promising himself the pleasure of a future moonlight visit to burley old farm, from which he should return with the ann hen herself on his shoulder. yes, archie's hunt had been unsuccessful, though the day had not ended without adventure, and he had enjoyed the pleasures of the chase. bounder, the big newfoundland, first took up the scent, and away he went with fuss and tackier at his heels, the others following as well as they could, restraining the dogs by voice and gesture. through the spruce woods, through a patch of pine forest, through a wild tangle of tall, snow-laden furze, out into the open, over a stream, and across a wide stretch of heathery moorland, round quarries and rocks, and once more into a wood. this time it was stunted larch, and in the very centre of it, close by a cairn of stones, bounder said--and both fuss and tackier acquiesced--that reynard had his den. but how to get him out? "you two little chaps get inside," bounder seemed to say. "i'll stand here; and as soon as he bolts, i shall make the sawdust fly out of him, you see!" escape for the fox seemed an impossibility. he had more than one entrance to his den, but all were carefully blocked up by the keeper except his back and front door. bounder guarded the latter, archie went to watch by the former. "keep quiet and cool now, and aim right behind the shoulder." quiet and cool indeed! how could he? under such exciting circumstances, his heart was thumping like a frightened pigeon's, and his cheeks burning with the rush of blood to them. he knelt down with his gun ready, and kept his eyes on the hole. he prayed that reynard might not bolt by the front door, for that would spoil his sport. the terrier made it very warm for the fox in his den. small though the little yorkie was, his valour was wonderful. out in the open reynard could have killed them one by one, but here the battle was unfair, so after a few minutes of a terrible scrimmage the fox concluded to bolt. archie saw his head at the hole, half protruded then drawn back, and his heart thumped now almost audibly. would he come? would he dare it? yes, the fox dared it, and came. he dashed out with a wild rush, like a little hairy hurricane. "aim behind the shoulder!" where was the shoulder? where was anything but a long sable stream of something feathering through the snow? bang! bang! both barrels. and down rolled the fox. yes, no. oh dear, it was poor fuss! the fox was half a mile away in a minute. fuss lost blood that stained the snow brown as it fell on it. and archie shed bitter tears of sorrow and humiliation. "oh, fuss, my dear, dear doggie!" he cried, "_i_ didn't mean to hurt you." the skye terrier was lying on the keeper's knees and having a snow styptic. soon the blood ceased to flow, and fuss licked his young master's hands, and presently got down and ran around and wanted to go to earth again; and though archie felt he could never forgive himself for his awkwardness, he was so happy to see that fuss was not much the worse after all. but there would be no triumphant home-returning; he even began to doubt if ever he would be a sportsman. then branson consoled him, and told him he himself didn't do any better when he first took to the hill. "it is well," said mr walton, laughing, "that you didn't shoot me instead." "ye-es," said archie slowly, looking at fuss. it was evident he was not quite convinced that mr walton was right. "fuss is none the worse," cried branson. "oh, i can tell you it does these scotch dogs good to have a drop or two of lead in them! it makes them all the steadier, you know." about an hour after, to his exceeding delight, archie shot a hare. oh joy! oh day of days! his first hare! he felt a man now, from the top of his astrachan cap to the toe caps of his shooting-boots. bounder picked it up, and brought it and laid it at archie's feet. "good dog! you shall carry it." bounder did so most delightedly. they stopped at an outlying cottage on their way home. it was a long, low, thatched building, close by a wood, a very humble dwelling indeed. a gentle-faced widow woman opened to their knock. she looked scared when she saw them, and drew back. "oh!" she said, "i hope robert hasn't got into trouble again?" "no, no, mrs cooper, keep your mind easy, bob's a' right at present. we just want to eat our bit o' bread and cheese in your sheiling." "and right welcome ye are, sirs. come in to the fire. here's a broom to brush the snow fra your leggins." bounder marched in with the rest, with as much swagger and independence as if the cottage belonged to him. mrs cooper's cat determined to defend her hearth and home against such intrusion, and when bounder approached the former, she stood on her dignity, back arched, tail erect, hair on end from stem to stern, with her ears back, and green fire lurking in her eyes. bounder stood patiently looking at her. he would not put down the hare, and he could not defend himself with it in his mouth; so he was puzzled. pussy, however, brought matters to a crisis. she slapped his face, then bolted right up the chimney. bounder put down the hare now, and gave a big sigh as he lay down beside it. "no, mrs cooper, bob hasn't been at his wicked work for some time. he's been gi'en someone else a turn i s'pose, eh?" "oh, sirs," said the widow, "it's no wi' my will he goes poachin'! if his father's heid were above the sod he daren't do it. but, poor bob, he's all i have in the world, and he works hard--sometimes." branson laughed. it was a somewhat sarcastic laugh; and young archie felt sorry for bob's mother, she looked so unhappy. "ay, mrs cooper, bob works hard sometimes, especially when settin' girns for game. ha! ha! hullo!" he added, "speak of angels and they appear. here comes bob himself!" bob entered, looked defiantly at the keeper, but doffed his cap and bowed to mr walton and archie. "mother," he said, "i'm going out." "not far, bob, lad; dinner's nearly ready." bob had turned to leave, but he wheeled round again almost fiercely. he was a splendid young specimen of a borderer, six feet if an inch, and well-made to boot. no extra flesh, but hard and tough as copper bolts. "denner!" he growled. "ay, denner to be sure--taties and salt! ha! and gentry live on the fat o' the land! if i snare a rabbit, if i dare to catch one o' god's own cattle on god's own hills, i'm a felon; i'm to be taken and put in gaol--shot even if i dare resist! yas, mother, i'll be in to denner," and away he strode. "potatoes and salt!" archie could not help thinking about that. and he was going away to his own bright home and to happiness. he glanced round him at the bare, clay walls, with their few bits of daubs of pictures, and up at the blackened rafters, where a cheese stood--one poor, hard cheese--and on which hung some bacon and onions. he could not repress a sigh, almost as heart-felt as that which bounder gave when he lay down beside the hare. when the keeper and tutor rose to go, archie stopped behind with bounder just a moment. when they came out, bounder had no hare. yet that hare was the first archie had shot, and--well, he _had_ meant to astonish elsie with this proof of his prowess; but the hare was better to be left where it was--he had earned a blessing. the party were in the wood when bob cooper, the poacher, sprang up as if from the earth and confronted them. "i came here a purpose," he said to branson. "this is not your wood; even if it was i wouldn't mind. what did you want at my mother's hoose?" "nothing; and i've nothing to say to ye." "haven't ye? but ye were in our cottage. it's no for nought the glaud whistles." "i don't want to quarrel," said branson, "especially after speakin' to your mother; she's a kindly soul, and i'm sorry for her and for you yoursel', bob." bob was taken aback. he had expected defiance, exasperation, and he was prepared to fight. archie stood trembling as these two athletes looked each other in the eyes. but gradually bob's face softened; he bit his lip and moved impatiently. the allusion to his mother had touched his heart. "i didn't want sich words, branson. i--may be i don't deserve 'em. i-- hang it all, give me a grip o' your hand!" then away went bob as quickly as he had come. branson glanced at his retreating figure one moment. "well," he said, "i never thought i'd shake hands wi' bob cooper! no matter; better please a fool than fecht 'im." "branson!" "yes, master archie." "i don't think bob's a fool; and i'm sure that, bad as he is, he loves his mother." "quite right, archie," said mr walton. archie met his father at the gate, and ran towards him to tell him all his adventures about the fox and the hare. but bob cooper and everybody else was forgotten when he noticed what and whom he had behind him. the "whom" was branson's little boy, peter; the "what" was one of the wildest-looking--and, for that matter, one of the wickedest-looking-- shetland ponies it is possible to imagine. long-haired, shaggy, droll, and daft; but these adjectives do not half describe him. "why, father, wherever--" "he's your birthday present, archie." the boy actually flushed red with joy. his eyes sparkled as he glanced from his father to the pony and back at his father again. "dad," he said at last, "i know now what old kate means about 'her cup being full.' father, my cup overflows!" well, archie's eyes were pretty nearly overflowing anyhow. chapter four. in the old castle tower. they were all together that evening in the green parlour as usual, and everybody was happy and merry. even rupert was sitting up and laughing as much as elsie. the clatter of tongues prevented them hearing mary's tapping at the door; and the carpet being so thick and soft, she was not seen until right in the centre of the room. "why, mary," cried elsie, "i got such a start, i thought you were a ghost!" mary looks uneasily around her. "there be one ghost, miss elsie, comes out o' nights, and walks about the old castle." "was that what you came in to tell us, mary?" "oh, no, sir! if ye please, bob cooper is in the yard, and he wants to speak to master archie. i wouldn't let him go if i were you, ma'am." archie's mother smiled. mary was a privileged little parlour maiden, and ventured at times to make suggestions. "go and see what he wants, dear," said his mother to archie. it was a beautiful clear moonlight night, with just a few white snow-laden clouds lying over the woods, no wind and never a hush save the distant and occasional yelp of a dog. "bob cooper!" "that's me, master archie. i couldn't rest till i'd seen ye the night. the hare--" "oh! that's really nothing, bob cooper!" "but allow me to differ. it's no' the hare altogether. i know where to find fifty. it was the way it was given. look here, lad, and this is what i come to say, branson and you have been too much for bob cooper. the day i went to that wood to thrash him, and i'd hae killed him, an i could. ha! ha! i shook hands with him! archie broadbent, your father's a gentleman, and they say you're a chip o' t'old block. i believe 'em, and look, see, lad, i'll never be seen in your preserves again. tell branson so. there's my hand on't. nay, never be afear'd to touch it. good-night. i feel better now." and away strode the poacher, and archie could hear the sound of his heavy tread crunching through the snow long after he was out of sight. "you seem to have made a friend, archie," said his father, when the boy reported the interview. "a friend," added mr walton with a quiet smile, "that i wouldn't be too proud of." "well," said the squire, "certainly bob cooper is a rough nut, but who knows what his heart may be like?" archie's room in the tower was opened in state next day. old kate herself had lit fires in it every night for a week before, though she never would go up the long dark stair without peter. peter was only a mite of a boy, but wherever he went, fuss, the skye terrier, accompanied him, and it was universally admitted that no ghost in its right senses would dare to face fuss. elsie was there of course, and rupert too, though he had to be almost carried up by stalwart branson. but what a glorious little room it was when you were in it! a more complete boy's own room could scarcely be imagined. it was a _beau ideal_; at least rupert and archie and elsie thought so, and even mr walton and branson said the same. let me see now, i may as well try to describe it, but much must be left to imagination. it was not a very big room, only about twelve feet square; for although the tower appeared very large from outside, the abnormal thickness of its walls detracted from available space inside it. there was one long window on each side, and a chair and small table could be placed on the sill of either. but this was curtained off at night, when light came from a huge lamp that depended from the ceiling, and the rays from which fought for preference with those from the roaring fire on the stone hearth. the room was square. a door, also curtained, gave entrance from the stairway at one corner, and at each of two other corners were two other doors leading into turret chambers, and these tiny, wee rooms were very delightful, because you were out beyond the great tower when you sat in them, and their slits of windows granted you a grand view of the charming scenery everywhere about. the furniture was rustic in the extreme--studiously so. there was a tall rocking-chair, a great dais or sofa, and a recline for rupert--"poor rupert" as he was always called--the big chair was the guest's seat. the ornaments on the walls had been principally supplied by branson. stuffed heads of foxes, badgers, and wild cats, with any number of birds' and beasts' skins, artistically mounted. there were also heads of horned deer, bows and arrows--these last were archie's own--and shields and spears that uncle ramsay had brought home from savage wars in africa and australia. the dais was covered with bear skins, and there was quite a quantity of skins on the floor instead of a carpet. so the whole place looked primeval and romantic. the bookshelf was well supplied with readable tales, and a harp stood in a corner, and on this, young though she was, elsie could already play. the guest to-night was old kate. she sat in the tall chair in a corner opposite the door, branson occupied a seat near her, rupert was on his recline, and archie and elsie on a skin, with little peter nursing wounded fuss in a corner. that was the party. but archie had made tea, and handed it round; and sitting there with her cup in her lap, old kate really looked a strange, weird figure. her face was lean and haggard, her eyes almost wild, and some half-grey hair peeped from under an uncanny-looking cap of black crape, with long depending strings of the same material. old kate was housekeeper and general female factotum. she was really a distant relation of the squire, and so had it very much her own way at burley old farm. she came originally from "just ayant the border," and had a wealth of old-world stories to tell, and could sing queer old bits of ballads too, when in the humour. old kate, however, said she could not sing to-night, for she felt as yet unused to the place; and whether they (the boys) believed in ghosts or not she (kate) did, and so, she said, had her father before her. but she told stories--stories of the bloody raids of long, long ago, when northumbria and the scottish borders were constantly at war--stories that kept her hearers enthralled while they listened, and to which the weird looks and strange voice of the narrator lent a peculiar charm. old kate was just in the very midst of one of these when, twang! one of the strings of elsie's harp broke. it was a very startling sound indeed; for as it went off it seemed to emit a groan that rang through the chamber, and died away in the vaulted roof. elsie crept closer to archie, and peter with fuss drew nearer the fire. the ancient dame, after being convinced that the sound was nothing uncanny, proceeded with her narrative. it was a long one, with an old house in it by the banks of a winding river in the midst of woods and wilds--a house that, if its walls had been able to speak, could have told many a marrow-freezing story of bygone times. there was a room in this house that was haunted. old kate was just coming to this, and to the part of her tale on which the ghosts on a certain night of the year always appeared in this room, and stood over a dark stain in the centre of the floor. "and ne'er a ane," she was saying, "could wash that stain awa'. weel, bairns, one moonlicht nicht, and at the deadest hoor o' the nicht, nothing would please the auld laird but he maun leave his chaimber and go straight along the damp, dreary, long corridor to the door o' the hauntid room. it was half open, and the moon's licht danced in on the fleer. he was listening--he was looking--" but at this very moment, when old kate had lowered her voice to a whisper, and the tension at her listeners' heart-strings was the greatest, a soft, heavy footstep was heard coming slowly, painfully as it might be, up the turret stairs. to say that every one was alarmed would but poorly describe their feelings. old kate's eyes seemed as big as watch-glasses. elsie screamed, and clung to archie. "who--oo--'s--who's there?" cried branson, and his voice sounded fearful and far away. no answer; but the steps drew nearer and nearer. then the curtain was pushed aside, and in dashed--what? a ghost?--no, only honest great bounder. bounder had found out there was something going on, and that fuss was up there, and he didn't see why he should be left out in the cold. that was all; but the feeling of relief when he did appear was unprecedented. old kate required another cup of tea after that. then branson got out his fiddle from a green baize bag; and if he had not played those merry airs, i do not believe that old kate would have had the courage to go downstairs that night at all. archie's pony was great fun at first. the best of it was that he had never been broken in. the squire, or rather his bailiff, had bought him out of a drove; so he was, literally speaking, as wild as the hills, and as mad as a march hare. but he soon knew archie and elsie, and, under branson's supervision, scallowa was put into training on the lawn. he was led, he was walked, he was galloped. but he reared, and kicked, and rolled whenever he thought of it, and yet there was not a bit of vice about him. spring had come, and early summer itself, before scallowa permitted archie to ride him, and a week or two after this the difficulty would have been to have told which of the two was the wilder and dafter, archie or scallowa. they certainly had managed to establish the most amicable relations. whatever scallowa thought, archie agreed to, and _vice versa_, and the pair were never out of mischief. of course archie was pitched off now and then, but he told elsie he did not mind it, and in fact preferred it to constant uprightness: it was a change. but the pony never ran away, because archie always had a bit of carrot in his pocket to give him when he got up off the ground. mr walton assured archie that these carrots accounted for his many tumbles. and there really did seem to be a foundation of truth about this statement. for of course the pony had soon come to know that it was to his interest to throw his rider, and acted accordingly. so after a time archie gave the carrot-payment up, and matters were mended. it was only when school was over that archie went for a canter, unless he happened to get up very early in the morning for the purpose of riding. and this he frequently did, so that, before the summer was done, scallowa and archie were as well known over all the countryside as the postman himself. archie's pony was certainly not very long in the legs, but nevertheless the leaps he could take were quite surprising. on the second summer after archie got this pony, both horse and rider were about perfect in their training, and in the following winter he appeared in the hunting-field with the greatest _sang-froid_, although many of the farmers, on their weight-carrying hunters, could have jumped over archie, scallowa, and all. the boy had a long way to ride to the hounds, and he used to start off the night before. he really did not care where he slept. old kate used to make up a packet of sandwiches for him, and this would be his dinner and breakfast. scallowa he used to tie up in some byre, and as often as not archie would turn in beside him among the straw. in the morning he would finish the remainder of kate's sandwiches, make his toilet in some running stream or lake, and be as fresh as a daisy when the meet took place. both he and scallowa were somewhat uncouth-looking. elsie, his sister, had proposed that he should ride in scarlet, it would look so romantic and pretty; but archie only laughed, and said he would not feel at home in such finery, and his "eider duck"--as he sometimes called the pony-- would not know him. "besides, elsie," he said, "lying down among straw with scarlets on wouldn't improve them." but old kate had given him a birthday present of a little scotch glengarry cap with a real eagle's feather, and he always wore this in the hunting-field. he did so for two reasons; first, it pleased old kate; and, secondly, the cap stuck to his head; no breeze could blow it off. it was not long before archie was known in the field as the "little demon huntsman." and, really, had you seen scallowa and he feathering across a moor, his bonnet on the back of his head, and the pony's immense mane blowing straight back in the wind, you would have thought the title well earned. in a straight run the pony could not keep up with the long-legged horses; but archie and he could dash through a wood, and even swim streams, and take all manner of short cuts, so that he was always in at the death. the most remarkable trait in archie's riding was that he could take flying leaps from heights: only a shetland pony could have done this. archie knew every yard of country, and he rather liked heading his lilliputian nag right away for a knoll or precipice, and bounding off it like a roebuck or scottish deerhound. the first time he was observed going straight for a bank of this kind he created quite a sensation. "the boy will be killed!" was the cry, and every lady then drew rein and held her breath. away went scallowa, and they were on the bank, in the air, and landed safely, and away again in less time that it takes me to tell of the exploit. the secret of the lad's splendid management of the pony was this: he loved scallowa, and scallowa knew it. he not only loved the little horse, but studied his ways, so he was able to train him to do quite a number of tricks, such as lying down "dead" to command, kneeling to ladies--for archie was a gallant lad--trotting round and round circus-fashion, and ending every performance by coming and kissing his master. between you and me, reader, a bit of carrot had a good deal to do with the last trick, if not with the others also. it occurred to this bold boy once that he might be able to take scallowa up the dark tower stairs to the boy's own room. the staircase was unusually wide, and the broken stones in it had been repaired with logs of wood. he determined to try; but he practised riding him blindfolded first. then one day he put him at the stairs; he himself went first with the bridle in his hand. what should he do if he failed? that is a question he did not stop to answer. one thing was quite certain, scallowa could not turn and go down again. on they went, the two of them, all in the dark, except that now and then a slit in the wall gave them a little light and, far beneath, a pretty view of the country. on and on, and up and up, till within ten feet of the top. here scallowa came to a dead stop, and the conversation between archie and his steed, although the latter did not speak english, might have been as follows: "come on, 'eider duck'!" "not a step farther, thank you." "come on, old horsie! you can't turn, you know." "no; not another step if i stay here till doomsday in the afternoon. going upstairs becomes monotonous after a time. no; i'll be shot if i budge!" "you'll be shot if you don't. gee up, i say; gee up!" "gee up yourself; i'm going to sleep." "i say, scallowa, look here." "what's that, eh? a bit of carrot? oh, here goes?" and in a few seconds more scallowa was in the room, and had all he could eat of cakes and carrots. archie was so delighted with his success that he must go to the castle turret, and halloo for branson and old kate to come and see what he had got in the tower. old kate's astonishment knew no bounds, and branson laughed till his sides were sore. bounder, the newfoundland, appeared also to appreciate the joke, and smiled from lug to lug. "how will you get him down?" "carrots," said archie; "carrots, branson. the 'duck' will do anything for carrots." the "duck," however, was somewhat nervous at first, and half-way downstairs even the carrots appeared to have lost their charm. while archie was wondering what he should do now, a loud explosion seemed to shake the old tower to its very foundation. it was only bounder barking in the rear of the pony. but the sound had the desired effect, and down came the "duck," and away went archie, so that in a few minutes both were out on the grass. and here scallowa must needs relieve his feelings by lying down and rolling; while great bounder, as if he had quite appreciated all the fun of the affair, and must do something to allay his excitement, went tearing round in a circle, as big dogs do, so fast that it was almost impossible to see anything of him distinctly. he was a dark shape _et preterea nihil_. but after a time scallowa got near to the stair, which only proves that there is nothing in reason you cannot teach a shetland pony, if you love him and understand him. the secret lies in the motto, "fondly and firmly." but, as already hinted, a morsel of carrot comes in handy at times. chapter five. "boys will be boys." bob cooper was as good as his word, which he had pledged to archie on that night at burley old farm, and branson never saw him again in the squire's preserves. nor had he ever been obliged to appear before the squire himself--who was now a magistrate--to account for any acts of trespass in pursuit of game on the lands of other lairds. but this does not prove that bob had given up poaching. he was discreetly silent about this matter whenever he met archie. he had grown exceedingly fond of the lad, and used to be delighted when he called at his mother's cottage on his "eider duck." there was always a welcome waiting archie here, and whey to drink, which, it must be admitted, is very refreshing on a warm summer's day. well, bob on these occasions used to show archie how to make flies, or busk hooks, and gave him a vast deal of information about outdoor life and sport generally. the subject of poaching was hardly ever broached; only once, when he and archie were talking together in the little cottage, bob himself volunteered the following information: "the gentry folks, master archie, think me a terrible man; and they wonder i don't go and plough, or something. la! they little know i've been brought up in the hills. sport i must hae. i couldna live away from nature. but i'm never cruel. heigho! i suppose i must leave the country, and seek for sport in wilder lands, where the man o' money doesn't trample on the poor. only one thing keeps me here." he glanced out of the window as he spoke to where his old mother was cooking dinner _al fresco_--boiling a pot as the gipsy does, hung from a tripod. "i know, i know," said archie. "how old are you now, master archie?" "going on for fourteen." "is _that_ all? why ye're big eno' for a lad o' seventeen!" this was true. archie was wondrous tall, and wondrous brown and handsome. his hardy upbringing and constant outdoor exercise, in summer's shine or winter's snow, fully accounted for his stature and looks. "i'm almost getting too big for my pony." "ah! no, lad; shetlands'll carry most anything." "well, i must be going, bob cooper. good-bye." "good-bye, master archie. ah! lad, if there were more o' your kind and your father's in the country, there would be fewer bad men like--like me." "i don't like to hear you saying that, bob. couldn't you be a good man if you liked? you're big enough." the poacher laughed. "yes," he replied, "i'm big enough; but, somehow, goodness don't strike right home to me like. it don't come natural--that's it." "my brother rupert says it is so easy to be good, if you read and pray god to teach and help you." "ah, master archie, your brother is good himself, but he doesn't know all." "my brother rupert bade me tell you that; but, oh, bob, how nice he can speak. i can't. i can fish and shoot, and ride 'eider duck;' but i can't say things so pretty as he can. well, good-bye again." "good-bye again, and tell your brother that i can't be good all at one jump like, but i'll begin to try mebbe. so long." archie broadbent might have been said to have two kinds of home education; one was thoroughly scholastic, the other very practical indeed. the squire was one in a hundred perhaps. he was devoted to his farm, and busied himself in the field, manually as well as orally. i mean to say that he was of such an active disposition that, while superintending and giving advice and orders, he put his hand to the wheel himself. so did mr walton, and whether it was harvest-time or haymaking, you would have found squire broadbent, the tutor, and archie hard at it, and even little elsie doing a little. i would not like to say that the squire was a radical, but he certainly was no believer in the benefits of too much class distinction. he thought burns was right when he said-- "a man's a man for a' that." was he any the less liked or less respected by his servants, because he and his boy tossed hay in the same field with them? i do not think so, and i know that the work always went more merrily on when they were there; and that laughing and even singing could be heard all day long. moreover, there was less beer drank, and more tea. the squire supplied both liberally, and any man might have which he chose. consequently there was less, far less, tired-headedness and languor in the evening. why, it was nothing uncommon for the lads and lasses of burley old farm to meet together on the lawn, after a hard day's toil, and dance for hours to the merry notes of branson's fiddle. we have heard of model farms; this squire's was one; but the servants, wonderful to say, were contented. there was never such a thing as grumbling heard from one year's end to the other. christmas too was always kept in the good, grand old style. even a yule log, drawn from the wood, was considered a property of the performances; and as for good cheer, why there was "lashins" of it, as an irishman would say, and fun "galore," to borrow a word from beyond the border. mr walton was a scholarly person, though you might not have thought so, had you seen him mowing turnips with his coat off. he, however, taught nothing to archie or rupert that might not have some practical bearing on his after life. such studies as mathematics and algebra were dull, in a manner of speaking; latin was taught because no one can understand english without it; french and german conversationally; geography not by rote, but thoroughly; and everything else was either very practical and useful, or very pleasant. music archie loved, but did not care to play; his father did not force him; but poor rupert played the zither. he loved it, and took to it naturally. rupert got stronger as he grew older, and when archie was fourteen and he thirteen, the physician gave good hopes; and he was even able to walk by himself a little. but to some extent he would be "poor rupert" as long as he lived. he read and thought far more than archie, and--let me whisper it--he prayed more fervently. "oh, roup," archie would say, "i should like to be as good as you! somehow, i don't feel to need to pray so much, and to have the lord jesus so close to me." it was a strange conceit this, but rupert's answer was a good one. "yes, archie, i need comfort more; but mind you, brother, the day may come when you'll want comfort of this kind too." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ old kate really was a queer old witch of a creature, superstitious to a degree. here is an example: one day she came rushing--without taking time to knock even--into the breakfast parlour. "oh, mistress broadbent, what a ghast i've gotten!" "dear me!" said the squire's wife; "sit down and tell us. what is it, poor kate?" "oh! oh!" she sighed. "nae wonder my puir legs ached. oh! sirs! sirs! "ye ken my little pantry? well, there's been a board doon on the fleer for ages o' man, and to-day it was taken out to be scrubbit, and what think ye was reveeled?" "i couldn't guess." "words, 'oman; words, printed and painted on the timmer--'_sacred to the memory of dinah brown, aged _.' a tombstone, 'oman--a wooden gravestone, and me standin' on't a' these years." here the squire was forced to burst out into a hearty laugh, for which his wife reprimanded him by a look. there was no mistake about the "wooden tombstone," but that this was the cause of old kate's rheumatism one might take the liberty to doubt. kate was a staunch believer in ghosts, goblins, fairies, kelpies, brownies, spunkies, and all the rest of the supernatural family; and i have something to relate in connection with this, though it is not altogether to the credit of my hero, archie. old kate and young peter were frequent visitors to the room in the tower, for the tea archie made, and the fires he kept on, were both most excellent in their way. "boys will be boys," and archie was a little inclined to practical joking. it made him laugh, so he said, and laughing made one fat. it happened that, one dark winter's evening, old kate was invited up into the tower, and branson with peter came also. archie volunteered a song, and branson played many a fine old air on his fiddle, so that the first part of the evening passed away pleasantly and even merrily enough. old kate drank cup after cup of tea as she sat in that weird old chair, and, by-and-by, archie, the naughty boy that he was, led the conversation round to ghosts. the ancient dame was in her element now; she launched forth into story after story, and each was more hair-stirring than its predecessor. elsie and archie occupied their favourite place on a bear's skin in front of the low fire; and while kate still droned on, and branson listened with eyes and mouth wide open, the boy might have been noticed to stoop down, and whisper something in his sister's ear. almost immediately after a rattling of chains could be heard in one of the turrets. both kate and branson started, and the former could not be prevailed upon to resume her story till archie lit a candle and walked all round the room, drawing back the turret curtains to show no one was there. once again old kate began, and once again chains were heard to rattle, and a still more awesome sound followed--a long, low, deep-bass groan, while at the same time, strange to say, the candle in archie's hand burnt blue. to add to the fearsomeness of the situation, while the chain continued to rattle, and the groaning now and then, there was a very appreciable odour of sulphur in the apartment. this was the climax. old kate screamed, and the big keeper, branson, fell on his knees in terror. even elsie, though she had an inkling of what was to happen, began to feel afraid. "there now, granny," cried archie, having carried the joke far enough, "here is the groaning ghost." as he spoke he produced a pair of kitchen bellows, with a musical reed in the pipe, which he proceeded to sound in old kate's very face, looking a very mischievous imp while he did so. "oh," said old kate, "what a scare the laddie has given me. but the chain?" archie pulled a string, and the chain rattled again. "and the candle? that was na canny." "a dust of sulphur in the wick, granny." big branson looked ashamed of himself, and old kate herself began to smile once more. "but how could ye hae the heart to scare an old wife sae, master archie?" "oh, granny, we got up the fun just to show you there were no such things as ghosts. rupert says--and he should know, because he's always reading--that ghosts are always rats or something." "ye maunna frichten me again, laddie. will ye promise?" "yes, granny, there's my hand on it. now sit down and have another cup of tea, and elsie will play and sing." elsie could sing now, and sweet young voice she had, that seemed to carry you to happier lands. branson always said it made him feel a boy again, wandering through the woods in summer, or chasing the butterflies over flowery beds. and so, albeit archie had carried his practical joke out to his own satisfaction, if not to that of every one else, this evening, like many others that had come before it, and came after it, passed away pleasantly enough. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was in the spring of the same year, and during the easter holidays, that a little london boy came down to reside with his aunt, who lived in one of archie's father's cottages. young harry brown had been sent to the country for the express purpose of enjoying himself, and set about this business forthwith. he made up to archie; in fact, he took so many liberties, and talked to him so glibly, and with so little respect, that, although archie had imbued much of his father's principles as regards liberalism, he did not half like it. perhaps, after all, it was only the boy's manner, for he had never been to the country at all before, and looked upon every one--archie included--who did not know london, as jolly green. but archie did not appreciate it, and, like the traditional worm, he turned, and once again his love for practical joking got the better of his common-sense. "teach us somefink," said harry one day, turning his white face up. he was older, perhaps, than archie, but decidedly smaller. "teach us somefink, and when you comes to vitechapel to wisit me, i'll teach you summut. my eye, won't yer stare!" the idea of this white-chafted, unwholesome-looking cad, expecting that _he_, squire broadbent's son, would visit _him_ in whitechapel! but archie managed to swallow his wrath and pocket his pride for the time being. "what shall i teach you, eh? i suppose you know that potatoes don't grow on trees, nor geese upon gooseberry-bushes?" "yes; i know that taters is dug out of the hearth. i'm pretty fly for a young un." "can you ride?" "no." "well, meet me here to-morrow at the same time, and i'll bring my 'duck.'" "look 'ere, johnnie raw, ye said '_ride_,' not '_swim_.' a duck teaches swimmin', not ridin'. none o' yer larks now!" next day archie swept down upon the cockney in fine form, meaning to impress him. the cockney was not much impressed; i fear he was not very impressionable. "my heye, johnnie raw," he roared, "vere did yer steal the moke?" "look you here, young whitechapel, you'll have to guard that tongue of yours a little, else communications will be cut. do you see?" "it _is_ a donkey, ain't it, johnnie?" "come on to the field and have a ride." five minutes afterwards the young cockney on the "eider duck's" back was tearing along the field at railway speed. john gilpin's ride was nothing to it, nor tam o'shanter's on his grey mare, meg! both these worthies had stuck to the saddle, but this horseman rode upon the neck of the steed. scallowa stopped short at the gate, but the boy flew over. archie found his friend rubbing himself, and looking very serious, and he felt happier now. "call that 'ere donkey a heider duck? h'm? i allers thought heider ducks was soft! "one to you, johnnie. i don't want to ride hany more." "what else shall i teach you?" "hey?" "come, i'll show you over the farm." "honour bright? no larks!" "yes; no larks!" "say honour." "honour." young whitechapel had not very much faith in his guide, however; but he saw more country wonders that day than ever he could have dreamt of; while his strange remarks kept archie continually laughing. next day the two boys went bird-nesting, and really archie was very mischievous. he showed him a hoody-crow's nest, which he represented as a green plover's or lapwing's; and a blackbird's nest in a furze-bush, which he told harry was a magpie's; and so on, and so forth, till at last he got tired of the cheeky cockney, and sent him off on a mile walk to a cairn of stones, on which he told him crows sometimes sat and "might have a nest." then archie threw himself on the moss, took out a book, and began to read. he was just beginning to repent of his conduct to harry brown, and meant to go up to him like a man when he returned, and crave his forgiveness. but somehow, when harry came back he had so long a face, that wicked archie burst out laughing, and forgot all about his good resolve. "what shall i teach you next?" said archie. "draw it mild, johnnie; it's 'arry's turn. it's the boy's turn to teach you summut. shall we 'ave it hout now wi' the raw uns? bunches o' fives i means. hey?" "i really don't understand you." "ha! ha! ha! i knowed yer was a green 'un, johnnie. can yer fight? hey? 'cause i'm spoilin' for a row." and harry brown threw off his jacket, and began to dance about in terribly knowing attitudes. "you had better put on your clothes again," said archie. "fight _you_? why i could fling you over the fishpond." "ah! i dessay; but flingin' ain't fightin', johnnie. come, there's no getting hout of it. it ain't the first young haristocrat i've frightened; an' now you're afraid." that was enough for archie. and the next moment the lads were at it. but archie had met his match; he went down a dozen times. he remained down the last time. "it is wonderful," he said. "i quite admire you. but i've had enough; i'm beaten." "spoken like a plucked 'un. haven't swallowed yer teeth, hey?" "no; but i'll have a horrid black-eye." "raw beef, my boy; raw beef." "well; i confess i've caught a tartar." "an' i caught a crab yesterday. wot about your eider duck? my heye! johnnie, i ain't been able to sit down conweniently since. i say, johnnie?" "well." "friends, hey?" "all right." then the two shook hands, and young whitechapel said if archie would buy two pairs of gloves he would show him how it was done. so archie did, and became an apt pupil in the noble art of self-defence; which may be used at times, but never abused. however, archie broadbent never forgot that lesson in the wood. chapter six. "johnnie's got the grit in him." on the day of his fight with young harry in the wood, archie returned home to find both his father and mr walton in the drawing-room alone. his father caught the lad by the arm. "been tumbling again off that pony of yours?" "no, father, worse. i'm sure i've done wrong." he then told them all about the practical joking, and the _finale_. "well," said the squire, "there is only one verdict. what do you say, walton?" "serve him right!" "oh, i know that," said archie; "but isn't it lowering our name to keep such company?" "it isn't raising our name, nor growing fresh laurels either, for you to play practical jokes on this poor london lad. but as to being in his company, archie, you may have to be in worse yet. but listen! i want my son to behave as a gentleman, even in low company. remember that boy, and despise no one, whatever be his rank in life. now, go and beg your mother's and sister's forgiveness for having to appear before them with a black-eye." "archie!" his father called after him, as he was leaving the room. "yes, dad?" "how long do you think it will be before you get into another scrape?" "i couldn't say for certain, father. i'm sure i don't want to get into any. they just seem to come." "there's no doubt about one thing, mr broadbent," said the tutor smiling, when archie had left. "and that is?" "he's what everybody says he is, a chip of the old block. headstrong, and all that; doesn't look before he leaps." "don't _i_, walton?" "squire, i'm not going to flatter you. you know you don't." "well, my worthy secretary," said the squire, "i'm glad you speak so plainly. i can always come to you for advice when--" "when you want to," said walton, laughing. "all right, mind you do. i'm proud to be your factor, as well as tutor to your boys. now what about that chillingham bull? you won't turn him into the west field?" "why not? the field is well fenced. all our picturesque beasts are there. he is only a show animal, and he is really only a baby." "true, the bull is not much more than a baby, but--" the baby in question was the gift of a noble friend to squire broadbent; and so beautiful and picturesque did he consider him, that he would have permitted him to roam about the lawns, if there did not exist the considerable probability that he would play battledore and shuttlecock with the visitors, and perhaps toss old kate herself over the garden wall. so he was relegated to the west field. this really was a park to all appearance. a few pet cattle grazed in it, a flock of sheep, and a little herd of deer. they all lived amicably together, and sought shelter under the same spreading trees from the summer's sun. the cattle were often changed, so were the sheep, but the deer were as much fixtures as the trees themselves. the changing of sheep or cattle meant fine fun for archie. he would be there in all his glory, doing the work that was properly that of herdsmen and collie dogs. there really was not a great deal of need for collies when archie was there, mounted on his wild shetland pony, his darling "eider duck" scallowa; and it was admittedly a fine sight to see the pair of them--they seemed made for each other--feathering away across the field, heading and turning the drove. at such times he would be armed with a long whip, and occasionally a beast more rampageous than the rest would separate itself from the herd, and, with tail erect and head down, dash madly over the grass. this would be just the test for archie's skill that he longed for. away he would go at a glorious gallop; sometimes riding neck and neck with the runaway and plying the whip, at other times getting round and well ahead across the beast's bows with shout and yell, but taking care to manoeuvre so as to steer clear of an ugly rush. in this field always dwelt one particular sheep. it had, like the pony, been a birthday present, and, like the pony, it hailed from the _ultima thule_ of the british north. if ever there was a demon sheep in existence, surely this was the identical quadruped. tall and lank, and daft-looking, it possessed almost the speed of a red deer, and was as full of mischief as ever sheep could be. the worst of the beast was, that he led all the other woolly-backs into mischief; and whether it proposed a stampede round the park, ending with a charge through the ranks of the deer, or a well-planned attempt at escape from the field altogether, the other sheep were always willing to join, and sometimes the deer themselves. archie loved that sheep next to the pony, and there were times when he held a meet of his own. mousa, as he called him, would be carted, after the fashion of the queen's deer, to a part of the estate, miles from home; but it was always for home that mousa headed, though not in a true line. no, this wonderful sheep would take to the woods as often as not, and scamper over the hills and far away, so that archie had many a fine run; and the only wonder is that scallowa and he did not break their necks. the young chillingham bull was as beautiful as a dream--a nightmare for instance. he was not very large, but sturdy, active, and strong. milk-white, or nearly so, with black muzzle and crimson ears inside, and, you might say, eyes as well. pure white black-tipped horns, erect almost, and a bit of a mane which added to his picturesqueness and wild beauty. his name was lord glendale, and his pedigree longer than the laird o' cockpen's. now, had his lordship behaved himself, he certainly would have been an ornament to the society of westfield. but he wouldn't or couldn't. baby though he was, he attempted several times to vivisect his companions; and one day, thinking perhaps that mousa did not pay him sufficient respect, his lordship made a bold attempt to throw him over the moon. so it was determined that lord glendale should be removed from westfield. at one end of the park was a large, strong fence, and branson and others came to the conclusion that glendale would be best penned, and have a ring put in his nose. yes, true; but penning a chillingham wild baby-bull is not so simple as penning a letter. there is more _present_ risk about the former operation, if not _future_. "well, it's got to be done," said branson. "yes," said archie, who was not far off, "it's got to be done." "oh, master archie, you _can't_ be in this business!" "can't i, branson? you'll see." and branson did see. he saw archie ride into the west field on scallowa, both of them looking in splendid form. men with poles and ropes and dogs followed, some of the former appearing not to relish the business by any means. however, it would probably be an easier job than they thought. the plan would be to get the baby-bull in the centre of the other cattle, manoeuvre so as to keep him there, and so pen all together.--this might have been done had archie kept away, but it so happened that his lordship was on particularly good terms with himself this morning. moreover, he had never seen a shetland pony before. what more natural, therefore, than a longing on the part of lord glendale to examine the little horse _inside_ as well as out? "go gently now, lads," cried branson. "keep the dogs back, peter, we must na' alarm them." lord glendale did not condescend to look at branson. he detached himself quietly from the herd, and began to eat up towards the spot where archie and his "duck" were standing like some pretty statue. eating up towards him is the correct expression, as everyone who knows bulls will admit; for his lordship did not want to alarm archie till he was near enough for the grand rush. then the fun would commence, and lord glendale would see what the pony was made of. while he kept eating, or rather pretending to eat, his sly red eyes were fastened on archie. now, had it been harry brown, the whitechapel boy, this ruse on the part of the baby-bull might have been successful. but archie broadbent was too old for his lordship. he pretended, however, to take no notice; but just as the bull was preparing for the rush he laughed derisively, flicked lord glendale with the whip, and started. lord glendale roared with anger and disappointment. "oh, master archie," cried branson, "you shouldn't have done that!" now the play began in earnest. away went archie on scallowa, and after him tore the bull. archie's notion was to tire the brute out, and there was some very pretty riding and manoeuvring between the two belligerents. perhaps the bull was all too young to be easily tired, for the charges he made seemed to increase in fierceness each time, but archie easily eluded him. branson drove the cattle towards the pen, and got them inside, then he and his men concentrated all their attention on the combatants. "the boy'll be killed as sure as a gun!" cried the keeper. archie did not think so, evidently; and it is certain he had his wits about him, for presently he rode near enough to shout: "ease up a hurdle from the back of the pen, and stand by to open it as i ride through." the plan was a bold one, and branson saw through it at once. down he ran with his men, and a back hurdle was loosened. "all right!" he shouted. and now down thundered scallowa and archie, the bull making a beautiful second. in a minute or less he had entered the pen, but this very moment the style of the fight changed somewhat; for had not the attention of everyone been riveted on the race, they might have seen the great newfoundland dashing over the field, and just as lord glendale was entering the pen, bounder pinned him short by the tail. the brute roared with pain and wheeled round. meanwhile archie had escaped on the pony, and the back hurdle was put up again. but how about the new phase the fight had taken? once more the boy's quick-wittedness came to the front. he leapt off the pony and back into the pen, calling aloud, "bounder! bounder! bounder!" in rushed the obedient dog, and after him came the bull; up went the hurdle, and off went archie! but, alas! for the unlucky bounder. he was tossed right over into the field a moment afterwards, bleeding frightfully from a wound in his side. to all appearance bounder was dead. in an agony of mind the boy tried to staunch the blood with his handkerchief; and when at last the poor dog lifted his head, and licked his young master's face, the relief to his feelings was so great that he burst into tears. archie was only a boy after all, though a bold and somewhat mischievous one. bounder now drank water brought from a stream in a hat. he tried to get up, but was too weak to walk, so he was lifted on to scallowa's broad back and held there, and thus they all returned to burley old farm. so ended the adventure with the baby-bull of chillingham. the ring was put in his nose next day, and i hope it did not hurt much. but old kate had bounder as a patient in the kitchen corner for three whole weeks. a day or two after the above adventure, and just as the squire was putting on his coat in the hall, who should march up to the door and knock but harry brown himself. most boys would have gone to the backdoor, but shyness was not one of harry's failings. "'ullo!" he said; for the door opened almost on the instant he knocked, "yer don't take long to hopen to a chap then." "no," said squire broadbent, smiling down on the lad; "fact is, boy, i was just going out." "going for a little houting, hey? is 'pose now you're johnnie's guv'nor?" "i think i know whom you refer to. master archie, isn't it? and you're the little london lad?" "i don't know nuffink about no harchies. p'r'aps it _is_ harchibald. but i allers calls my friends wot they looks like. he looks like johnnie. kinsevently, guv'nor, he _is_ johnnie to me. d'ye twig?" "i think i do," said squire broadbent, laughing; "and you want to see my boy?" "vot i vants is this 'ere. johnnie is a rare game un. 'scuse me, guv'nor, but johnnie's got the grit in him, and i vant to say good-bye; nuffink else, guv'nor." here harry actually condescended to point a finger at his lip by way of salute, and just at the same moment archie himself came round the corner. he looked a little put out, but his father only laughed, and he saw it was all right. these were harry's last words: "good-bye, then. you've got the grit in ye, johnnie. and if hever ye vants a friend, telegraph to 'arry brown, esq., of vitechapel, 'cos ye know, johnnie, the king may come in the cadger's vay. adoo. so long. blue-lights, and hoff we goes." chapter seven. "they're up to some black work to-night." another summer flew all too fast away at burley old farm and castle tower. the song of birds was hushed in the wild woods, even the corn-crake had ceased its ventriloquistic notes, and the plaintive wee lilt of the yellow-hammer was heard no more. the corn grew ripe on braeland and field, was cut down, gathered, stooked, and finally carted away. the swallows flew southwards, but the peewits remained in droves, and the starlings took up their abode with the sheep. squires and sturdy farmers might now have been met tramping, gun in hand, over the stubble, through the dark green turnip-fields, and over the distant moorlands, where the crimson heather still bloomed so bonnie. anon, the crisp leaves, through which the wind now swept with harsher moan, began to change to yellows, crimsons, and all the hues of sunset, and by-and-by it was hunting-time again. archie was unusually thoughtful one night while the family sat, as of yore, round the low fire in the green parlour, elsie and rupert being busy in their corner over a game of chess. "in a brown study, archie?" said his mother. "_no_, mummie; that is, yes, i was thinking--" "wonders will never cease," said rupert, without looking up. archie looked towards him, but his brother only smiled at the chessmen. the boy was well enough now to joke and laugh. best of signs and most hopeful. "i was thinking that my legs are almost too long now to go to the meet on poor scallowa. not that scallowa would mind. but don't you think, mummie dear, that a long boy on a short pony looks odd?" "a little, archie." "well, why couldn't father let me have tell to-morrow? he is not going out himself." his father was reading the newspaper, but he looked at archie over it. though only his eyes were visible, the boy knew he was smiling. "if you think you won't break your neck," he said, "you may take tell." "oh," archie replied, "i'm quite sure i won't break _my_ neck!" the squire laughed now outright. "you mean you _might_ break tell's, eh?" "well, dad, i didn't _say_ that." "_no_, archie, but you _thought_ it." "i'm afraid, dad, the emphasis fell on the wrong word." "never mind, archie, where the emphasis falls; but if you let tell fall the emphasis will fall where you won't like it." "all right, dad, i'll chance the emphasis. hurrah!" the squire and mr walton went off early next day to a distant town, and branson had orders to bring tell round to the hall door at nine sharp; which he did. the keeper was not groom, but he was the tallest man about, and archie thought he would want a leg up. archie's mother was there, and elsie, and rupert, and old kate, and little peter, to say nothing of bounder and fuss, all to see "t' young squire mount." but no one expected the sight they did see when archie appeared; for the lad's sense of fun and the ridiculous was quite irrepressible. and the young rascal had dressed himself from top to toe in his father's hunting-rig--boots, cords, red coat, hat, and all complete. well, as the boots were a mile and a half too big for him-- more or less, and the breeches and coat would have held at least three archie broadbents, while the hat nearly buried his head, you may guess what sort of a guy he looked. bounder drew back and barked at him. old kate turned her old eyes cloudwards, and held up her palms. branson for politeness' sake _tried_ not to laugh; but it was too much, he went off at last like a soda-water cork, and the merriment rippled round the ring like wildfire. even poor rupert laughed till the tears came. then back into the house ran archie, and presently re-appeared dressed in his own velvet suit. but archie had not altogether cooled down yet. he had come to the conclusion that having an actual leg up, was not an impressive way of getting on to his hunter; so after kissing his mother, and asking rupert to kiss elsie for him, he bounded at one spring to branson's shoulder, and from this elevation bowed and said "good morning," then let himself neatly down to the saddle. "tally ho! yoicks!" he shouted. then clattered down the avenue, cleared the low, white gate, and speedily disappeared across the fields. archie had promised himself a rare day's run, and he was not disappointed. the fox was an old one and a wily one--and, i might add, a very gentlemanly old fox--and he led the field one of the prettiest dances that dawson, the greyest-headed huntsman in the north, ever remembered; but there was no kill. no; master reynard knew precisely where he was going, and got home all right, and went quietly to sleep as soon as the pack drew off. the consequence was that archie found himself still ten miles from home as gloaming was deepening into night. another hour he thought would find him at burley old farm. but people never know what is before them, especially hunting people. it had been observed by old kate, that after archie left in the morning, bounder seemed unusually sad. he refused his breakfast, and behaved so strangely that the superstitious dame was quite alarmed. "i'll say naething to the ladies," she told one of the servants, "but, woe is me! i fear that something awfu' is gain tae happen. i houp the young laddie winna brak his neck. he rode awa' sae daft-like. he is just his faither a' ower again." bounder really had something on his mind; for dogs do think far more than we give them credit for. well, the squire was off, and also mr walton, and now his young master had flown. what did it mean? why he would find out before he was many hours older. so ran bounder's cogitations. to think was to act with bounder; so up he jumped, and off he trotted. he followed the scent for miles; then he met an errant collie, and forgetting for a time all about his master, he went off with him. there were many things to be done, and bounder was not in a hurry. they chased cows and sheep together merely for mischief's sake; they gave chase to some rabbits, and when the bunnies took to their holes, they spent hours in a vain attempt to dig them out. the rabbits knew they could never succeed, so they quietly washed their faces and laughed at them. they tired at last, and with their heads and paws covered with mould, commenced to look for mice among the moss. they came upon a wild bees' home in a bank, and tore this up, killing the inmates bee by bee as they scrambled out wondering what the racket meant. they snapped at the bees who were returning home, and when both had their lips well stung they concluded to leave the hive alone. honey wasn't _very_ nice after all, they said. at sunset they bathed in a mill-dam and swam about till nearly dusk, because the miller's boy was obliging enough to throw in sticks for them. then the miller's boy fell in himself, and bounder took him out and laid him on the bank to drip, neither knowing nor caring that he had saved a precious life. but the miller's boy's mother appeared on the scene and took the weeping lad away, inviting the dogs to follow. she showered blessings on their heads, especially on "the big black one's," as the urchin called bounder, and she put bread and milk before them and bade them eat. the dogs required no second bidding, and just as bounder was finishing his meal the sound of hoofs was heard on the road, and out bounced bounder, the horse swerved, the rider was thrown, and the dog began to wildly lick his face. "so it's you, is it, bounder?" said archie. "a nice trick. and now i'll have to walk home a good five miles." bounder backed off and barked. why did his master go off and leave him then? that is what the dog was saying. "come on, boy," said archie. "there's no help for it; but i do feel stiff." they could go straight over the hill, and through the fields and the wood, that was one consolation. so off they set, and archie soon forgot his stiffness and warmed to his work. bounder followed close to his heels, as if he were a very old and a very wise dog indeed; and harrying bees' hives, or playing with millers' boys, could find no place in his thoughts. archie lost his way once or twice, and it grew quite dark. he was wondering what he should do when he noticed a light spring up not far away, and commenced walking towards it. it came from the little window of a rustic cottage, and the boy knew at once now in which way to steer. curiosity, however, impelled him to draw near to the window. he gave just one glance in, but very quickly drew back. sitting round a table was a gang of half a dozen poachers. he knew them as the worst and most notorious evil-doers in all the country round. they were eating and drinking, and guns stood in the corners, while the men themselves seemed ready to be off somewhere. away went archie. he wanted no nearer acquaintance with a gang like that. in his way home he had to pass bob cooper's cottage, and thought he might just look in, because bob had a whole book of new flies getting ready for him, and perhaps they were done. bob was out, and his mother was sitting reading the good book by the light of a little black oil lamp. she looked very anxious, and said she felt so. her laddie had "never said where he was going. only just went away out, and hadn't come back." it was archie's turn now to be anxious, when he thought of the gang, and the dark work they might be after. bob was not among them, but who could tell that he would not join afterwards? he bade the widow "good-night," and went slowly homewards thinking. he found everyone in a state of extreme anxiety. hours ago tell had galloped to his stable door, and if there be anything more calculated to raise alarm than another, it is the arrival at his master's place of a riderless horse. but archie's appearance, alive and intact, dispelled the cloud, and dinner was soon announced. "oh, by the way," said archie's tutor, as they were going towards the dining-room, "your old friend bob cooper has been here, and wants to see you! i think he is in the kitchen now." away rushed archie, and sure enough there was bob eating supper in old kate's private room. he got up as archie's entered, and looked shy, as people of his class do at times. archie was delighted. "i brought the flies, and some new sorts that i think will do for the kelpie burn," he said. "well, i'm going to dine, bob; you do the same. don't go till i see you. how long have you been here?" "two hours, anyhow." when archie returned he invited bob to the room in the castle tower. kate must come too, and branson with his fiddle. away went archie and his rough friend, and were just finishing a long debate about flies and fishing when kate and peter, and branson and bounder, came up the turret stairs and entered the room. archie then told them all of what he had seen that night at the cottage. "mark my words for it," said bob, shaking his head, "they're up to some black work to-night." "you mustn't go yet awhile, bob," archie said. "we'll have some fun, and you're as well where you are." chapter eight. the widow's lonely hut. bob cooper bade archie and branson good-bye that night at the bend of the road, some half mile from his own home, and trudged sturdily on in the starlight. there was sufficient light "to see men as trees walking." "my mother'll think i'm out in th' woods," bob said to himself. "well, she'll be glad when she knows she's wrong this time." once or twice he started, and looked cautiously, half-fearfully, round him; for he felt certain he saw dark shadows in the field close by, and heard the stealthy tread of footsteps. he grasped the stout stick he carried all the firmer, for the poacher had made enemies of late by separating himself from a well-known gang of his old associates--men who, like the robbers in the ancient ballad-- "slept all day and waked all night, and kept the country round in fright." on he went; and the strange, uncomfortable feeling at his heart was dispelled as, on rounding a corner of the road, he saw the light glinting cheerfully from his mother's cottage. "poor old creature," he murmured half aloud, "many a sore heart i've given her. but i'll be a better boy now. i'll--" "now, lads," shouted a voice, "have at him!" "back!" cried bob cooper, brandishing his cudgel. "back, or it'll be worse for you!" the dark shadows made a rush. bob struck out with all his force, and one after another fell beneath his arm. but a blow from behind disabled him at last, and down he went, just as his distracted mother came rushing, lantern in hand, from her hut. there was the sharp click of the handcuffs, and bob cooper was a prisoner. the lantern-light fell on the uniforms of policemen. "what is it? oh, what has my laddie been doin'?" "murder, missus, or something very like it! there has been dark doin's in th' hill to-night!" bob grasped the nearest policeman by the arm with his manacled hands. "when--when did ye say it had happened?" "you know too well, lad. not two hours ago. don't sham innocence; it sits but ill on a face like yours." "mother," cried bob bewilderingly, "i know nothing of it! i'm innocent!" but his mother heard not his words. she had fainted, and with rough kindness was carried into the hut and laid upon the bed. when she revived some what they left her. it was a long, dismal ride the unhappy man had that night; and indeed it was well on in the morning before the party with their prisoner reached the town of b--. bob's appearance before a magistrate was followed almost instantly by his dismissal to the cells again. the magistrate knew him. the police had caught him "red-handed," so they said, and had only succeeded in making him prisoner "after a fierce resistance." "remanded for a week," without being allowed to say one word in his own defence. the policeman's hint to bob's mother about "dark doin's in th' hill" was founded on fearful facts. a keeper had been killed after a terrible _melee_ with the gang of poachers, and several men had been severely wounded on both sides. the snow-storm that came on early on the morning after poor bob cooper's capture was one of the severest ever remembered in northumbria. the frost was hard too all day long. the snow fell incessantly, and lay in drifts like cliffs, fully seven feet high, across the roads. the wind blew high, sweeping the powdery snow hither and thither in gusts. it felt for all the world like going into a cold shower-bath to put one's head even beyond the threshold of the door. nor did the storm abate even at nightfall; but next day the wind died down, and the face of the sky became clear, only along the southern horizon the white clouds were still massed like hills and cliffs. it was not until the afternoon that news reached burley old farm of the fight in the woods and death of the keeper. it was a sturdy old postman who had brought the tidings. he had fought his way through the snow with the letters, and his account of the battle had well-nigh caused old kate to swoon away. when mary, the little parlour maid, carried the mail in to her master she did not hesitate to relate what she had heard. squire broadbent himself with archie repaired to the kitchen, and found the postman surrounded by the startled servants, who were drinking in every word he said. "one man killed, you say, allan?" "ay, sir, killed dead enough. and it's a providence they caught the murderer. took him up, sir, just as he was a-goin' into his mother's house, as cool as a frosted turnip, sir." "well, allan, that is satisfactory. and what is his name?" "bob cooper, sir, known all over the--" "bob cooper!" cried archie aghast. "why, father, he was in our room in the turret at the time." "so he was," said the squire. "taken on suspicion i suppose. but this must be seen to at once. bad as we know bob to have been, there is evidence enough that he has reformed of late. at all events, he shall not remain an hour in gaol on such a charge longer than we can help." night came on very soon that evening. the clouds banked up again, the snow began to fall, and the wind moaned round the old house and castle in a way that made one feel cold to the marrow even to listen to. morning broke slowly at last, and archie was early astir. tell, with the shetland pony and a huge great hunter, were brought to the door, and shortly after breakfast the party started for b--. branson bestrode the big hunter--he took the lead--and after him came the squire on tell, and archie on scallowa. this daft little horse was in fine form this morning, having been in stall for several days. he kept up well with the hunters, though there were times that both he and his rider were all but buried in the gigantic wreaths that lay across the road. luckily the wind was not high, else no living thing could long have faced that storm. the cottage in which widow cooper had lived ever since the death of her husband was a very primitive and a very poor one. it consisted only of two rooms, what are called in scotland "a butt and a ben." bob had been only a little barefooted boy when his father died, and probably hardly missed him. he had been sent regularly to school before then, but not since, for his mother had been unable to give him further education. all their support was the morsel of garden, a pig or two, and the fowls, coupled with whatever the widow could make by knitting ribbed stockings for the farmer folks around. bob grew up wild, just as the birds and beasts of the hills and woods do. while, however, he was still a little mite of a chap, the keepers even seldom molested him. it was only natural, they thought, for a boy to act the part of a squirrel or polecat, and to be acquainted with every bird's nest and rabbit's burrow within a radius of miles. when he grew a little older and a trifle bigger they began to warn him off, and when one day he was met marching away with a cap full of pheasant's eggs, he received as severe a drubbing as ever a lad got at the hands of a gamekeeper. bob had grown worse instead of better after this. the keepers became his sworn enemies, and there was a spice of danger and adventure in vexing and outwitting them. unfortunately, in spite of all his mother said to the contrary, bob was firmly impressed with the notion that game of every kind, whether fur or feather, belonged as much to him as to the gentry who tried to preserve them. the fresh air was free; nobody dared to claim the sunshine. then why the wild birds, and the hares and rabbits? evil company corrupts good manners. that is what his copy-book used to tell him. but bob soon learned to laugh at that, and it is no wonder that as he reached manhood his doings and daring as a poacher became noted far and near. he was beyond the control of his mother. she could only advise him, read to him, pray for him; but i fear in vain. only be it known that bob cooper really loved this mother of his, anomalous though it may seem. well, the keepers had been very harsh with him, and the gentry were harsh with him, and eke the law itself. law indeed! why bob was all but an outlaw, so intense was his hatred to, and so great his defiance of the powers that be. it was strange that what force could not effect, a few soft words from branson, and archie's gift of the hare he had shot on his birthday, brought about. bob cooper's heart could not have been wholly adamantine, therefore he began to believe that after all a gamekeeper might be a good fellow, and that there might even exist gentlefolks whose chief delight was not the oppression of the poor. he began after that to seek for honest work; but, alas! people looked askance at him, and he found that the path of virtue was one not easily regained when once deviated from. his quondam enemy, however, branson, spoke many a good word for him, and bob was getting on, much to his mother's delight and thankfulness, when the final and crashing blow fell. poor old widow cooper! for years and years she had but two comforts in this world; one was her bible, and the other--do not smile when i tell you--was her pipie. oh! you know, the poor have not much to make them happy and to cheer their loneliness, so why begrudge the widow her morsel of tobacco? in the former she learned to look forward to another and a better world, far beyond that bit of blue sky she could see at the top of her chimney on a summer's night--a world where everything would be bright and joyful, where there would be no vexatious rheumatism, no age, and neither cold nor care. from the latter she drew sweet forgetfulness of present trouble, and happy recollections of bygone years. sitting there by the hearth all alone--her son perhaps away on the hill--her thoughts used oftentimes to run away with her. once more she would be young, once again her hair was a bonnie brown, her form little and graceful, roses mantling in her cheeks, soft light in her eyes. and she is wandering through the tasselled broom with david by her side. "david! heigho!" she would sigh as she shook the ashes from her pipie. "poor david! it seems a long, long time since he left me for the better land," and the sunlight would stream down the big, open chimney and fall upon her skinny hands--fall upon the elfin-like locks that escaped from beneath her cap--fall, too, on the glittering pages of the book on her lap like a promise of better things to come. before that sad night, when, while sitting up waiting for her son, she was startled by the sudden noise of the struggle that commenced at her door, she thought she had reason to be glad and thankful for the softening of her boy's heart. then all her joy collapsed, her hopes collapsed--fell around her like a house of cards. it was a cruel, a terrible blow. the policeman had carried her in, laid her on the bed with a rough sort of kindness, made up the fire, then gone out and thought no more about her. how she had spent the night need hardly be said; it is better imagined. she had dropped asleep at last, and when she awoke from fevered dreams it was daylight out of doors, but darkness in the hut. the window and door were snowed up, and only a faint pale light shimmered in through the chimney, falling on the fireless hearth--a dismal sight. many times that day she had tried to rise, but all in vain. the cold grew more intense as night drew on, and it did its work on the poor widow's weakened frame. her dreams grew more bright and happy though, as her body became numbed and insensible. it was as though the spirit were rejoicing in its coming freedom. but dreams left her at last. then all was still in the house, save the ticking of the old clock that hung against the wall. the squire speedily effected bob cooper's freedom, and he felt he had really done a good thing. "now, robert," he told him, "you have had a sad experience. let it be a lesson to you. i'll give you a chance. come to burley, and branson will find you honest work as long as you like to do it." "lord love you, sir!" cried bob. "there are few gentry like you." "i don't know so much about that, robert. you are not acquainted with all the good qualities of gentlefolks yet. but now, branson, how are we all to get home?" "oh, i know!" said archie. "scallowa can easily bear branson's weight, and i will ride the big hunter along with bob." so this was arranged. it was getting gloamed ere they neared the widow's lonesome hut. the squire with branson had left archie and bob, and cut across the frozen moor by themselves. "how glad my mother will be!" said bob. and now they came in sight of the cottage, and bob rubbed his eyes and looked again and again, for no smoke came from the chimney, no signs of life was about. the icicles hung long and strong from the eaves; one side of the hut was entirely overblown with drift, and the door in the other looked more like the entrance to some cave in greenland north. bad enough this was; but ah, in the inside of the poor little house the driven snow met them as they pushed open the door! it had blown down the wide chimney, covered the hearth, formed a wreath like a sea-wave on the floor, and even o'er-canopied the bed itself. and the widow, the mother, lay underneath. no, not dead; she breathed, at least. when the room had been cleared and swept of snow; when a roaring fire had been built on the hearth, and a little warm tea poured gently down her throat, she came gradually back again to life, and in a short time was able to be lifted into a sitting position, and then she recognised her son and archie. "oh, mother, mother!" cried bob, the tears streaming over his sun-browned face, "the maker'll never forgive me for all the ill i've done ye." "hush! bobbie, hush! what, lad, the maker no' forgive ye! eh, ye little know the grip o' his goodness! but you're here, you're innocent. thank him for that." "ye'll soon get better, mother, and i'll be so good. the squire is to give me work too." "it's o'er late for me," she said. "i'd like to live to see it, but his will be done." archie rode home the giant hunter, but in two hours he was once more mounted on scallowa, and feathering back through the snow towards the little cottage. the moon had risen now, and the night was starry and fine. he tied scallowa up in the peat shed, and went in unannounced. he found bob cooper sitting before the dying embers of the fire, with his face buried in his hands, and rocking himself to and fro. "she--just blessed me and wore away." that was all he said or could say. and what words of comfort could archie speak? none. he sat silently beside him all that livelong night, only getting up now and then to replenish the fire. but the poacher scarcely ever changed his position, only now and then he stretched out one of his great hands and patted archie's knee as one would pet a dog. a week passed away, and the widow was laid to rest beneath the frozen ground in the little churchyard by the banks of the river. archie went slowly back with bob towards the cottage. on their way thither, the poacher--poacher now no more though--entered a plantation, and with his hunting-knife cut and fashioned a rough ash stick. "we'll say good-bye here, master archie." "what! you are not going back with me to burley old farm?" bob took a small parcel from his pocket, and opening it exposed the contents. "do you know them, master archie?" "yes, your poor mother's glasses." "ay, lad, and as long as i live i'll keep them. and till my dying day, archie, i'll think on you, and your kindness to poor poacher bob. no, i'm not goin' back to burley, and i'm not going to the cottage again. i'm going away. where? i couldn't say. here, quick, shake hands, friend. let it be over. good-bye." "good-bye." and away went bob. he stopped when a little way off, and turned as if he had forgotten something. "archie!" he cried. "yes, bob." "take care of my mother's cat." next minute he leapt a fence, and disappeared in the pine wood. chapter nine. the whole yard was ablaze and burning fiercely. one year is but a brief span in the history of a family, yet it may bring many changes. it did to burley old farm, and some of them were sad enough, though some were glad. a glad change took place for instance in the early spring, after bob's departure; for rupert appeared to wax stronger and stronger with the lengthening days; and when uncle ramsay, in a letter received one morning, announced his intention of coming from london, and making quite a long stay at burley, rupert declared his intention of mounting scallowa, and riding over to the station to meet him. and the boy was as good as his word. in order that they might be both cavaliers together, uncle ramsay hired a horse at d--, and the two rode joyfully home side by side. his mother did not like to see that carmine flush on rupert's cheeks, however, nor the extra dark sparkle in his eyes when he entered the parlour to announce his uncle's arrival, but she said nothing. uncle ramsay broadbent was a brother of the squire, and, though considerably older, a good deal like him in all his ways. there was the same dash and go in him, and the same smiling front, unlikely to be dismayed by any amount of misfortune. "there are a deal of ups and downs in the ocean of life," archie heard him say one day; "we're on the top of a big wave one hour, and in the trough of the sea next, so we must take things as they come." yes, this uncle was a seafarer; the skipper of a sturdy merchantman that he had sailed in for ten long years. he did not care to be called captain by anyone. he was a master mariner, and had an opinion, which he often expressed, that plain "mr" was a gentleman's prefix. "i shan't go back to sea again," he said next morning at breakfast. "fact is, brother, my owners think i'm getting too old. and maybe they're right. i've had a fair innings, and it is only fair to give the young ones a chance." uncle ramsay seemed to give new life and soul to the old place. he settled completely down to the burley style of life long before the summer was half over. he joined the servants in the fields, and worked with them as did the squire, walton, and archie. and though more merriment went on in consequence, there was nevertheless more work done. he took an interest in all the boys' "fads," spent hours with them in their workshop, and made one in every game that was played on the grass. he was dreadfully awkward at cricket and tennis however; for such games as these are but little practised by sailors. only he was right willing to learn. there was a youthfulness and breeziness about uncle ramsay's every action, that few save seafarers possess when hair is turning white. of course, the skipper spent many a jolly hour up in the room of the castle tower, and he did not object either to the presence of old kate in the chair. he listened like a boy when she told her weird stories; and he listened more like a baby than anything else when branson played his fiddle. then he himself would spin them a yarn, and hold them all enthralled, especially big-eyed elsie, with the sterling reality and graphicness of the narrative. when uncle ramsay spoke you could see the waves in motion, hear the scream of the birds around the stern, or the wind roaring through the rigging. he spoke as he thought; he painted from life. well, the arrival of uncle ramsay and rupert's getting strong were two of the pleasant changes that took place at burley in this eventful year. alas! i have to chronicle the sad ones also. yet why sigh? to use uncle ramsay's own words, "you never know what a ship is made of until stormy seas are around you." first then came a bad harvest--a terribly bad harvest. it was not that the crops themselves were so very light, but the weather was cold and wet; the grain took long to ripen. the task of cutting it down was unfortunately an easy one, but the getting it stored was almost an impossibility. at the very time when it was ripe, and after a single fiercely hot day, a thunder-storm came on, and with it such hail as the oldest inhabitant in the parish could not remember having seen equalled. this resulted in the total loss of far more of the precious seed, than would have sown all the land of burley twice over. the wet continued. it rained and rained every day, and when it rained it poured. the squire had heard of a yankee invention for drying wheat under cover, and rashly set about a rude but most expensive imitation thereof. he first mentioned the matter to uncle ramsay at the breakfast-table. the squire seemed in excellent spirits that morning. he was walking briskly up and down the room rubbing his hands, as if in deep but pleasant thought, when his brother came quietly in. "hullo! you lazy old sea-dog. why you'd lie in your bed till the sun burned a hole in the blanket. now just look at me." "i'm just looking at you." "well, i've been up for hours. i'm as hungry as a caithness highlander. and i've got an idea." "i thought there was something in the wind." "guess." "guess, indeed! goodness forbid i should try. but i say, brother," continued uncle ramsay, laughing, "couldn't you manage to fall asleep somewhere out of doors, like the man in the story, and wake up and find yourself a king? my stars, wouldn't we have reforms as long as your reign lasted! the breakfast, mary? ah, that's the style!" "you won't be serious and listen, i suppose, ramsay." "oh, yes; i will." "well, the americans--" "the americans again; but go on." "the americans, in some parts where i've been, wouldn't lose a straw in a bad season. it is all done by means of great fanners and heated air, you know. now, i'm going to show these honest northumbrian farmers a thing or two. i--" "i say, brother, hadn't you better trust to providence, and wait for a fair wind?" "now, ramsay, that's where you and i differ. you're a slow moses. i want to move ahead a trifle in front of the times. i've been looking all over the dictionary of my daily life, and i can't find such a word as 'wait' in it." "let me give you some of this steak, brother." "my plan of operations, ramsay, is--" "why," said mrs broadbent, "you haven't eaten anything yet!" "i thought," said uncle ramsay, "you were as hungry as a tipperary highlander, or some such animal." "my plan, ramsay, is--" etc, etc. the two "etc, etc's" in the last line stand for all the rest of the honest squire's speech, which, as his sailor brother said, was as long as the logline. but for all his hunger he made but a poor breakfast, and immediately after he jumped up and hurried away to the barn-yards. it was a busy time for the next two weeks at burley old farm, but, to the squire's credit be it said, he was pretty successful with his strange operation of drying wheat independent of the sun. his ricks were built, and he was happy--happy as long as he thought nothing about the expense. but he did take an hour or two one evening to run through accounts, as he called it. uncle ramsay was with him. "why, brother," said ramsay, looking very serious now indeed, "you are terribly down to leeward--awfully out of pocket!" "ah! never mind, ramsay. one can't keep ahead of the times now-a-days, you know, without spending a little." "spending a little! where are your other books? mr walton and i will have a look through them to-night, if you don't mind." "not a bit, brother, not a bit. we're going to give a dance to-morrow night to the servants, so if you like to bother with the book-work i'll attend to the terpsichorean kick up." mr walton and uncle ramsay had a snack in the office that evening instead of coming up to supper, and when mrs broadbent looked in to say good-night she found them both quiet and hard at work. "i say, walton," said uncle ramsay some time after, "this is serious. draw near the fire and let us have a talk." "it is sad as well as serious," said walton. "had you any idea of it?" "not the slightest. in fact i'm to blame, i think, for not seeing to the books before. but the squire--" walton hesitated. "i know my brother well," said ramsay. "as good a fellow as ever lived, but as headstrong as a nor'-easter. and now he has been spending money on machinery to the tune of some ten thousand pounds. he has been growing crop after crop of wheat as if he lived on the prairies and the land was new; and he has really been putting as much down in seed, labour, and fashionable manures as he has taken off." "yet," said walton, "he is no fool." "no, not he; he is clever, too much so. but heaven send his pride, honest though it be, does not result in a fall." the two sat till long past twelve talking and planning, then they opened the casement and walked out on to the lawn. it was a lovely autumn night. the broad, round moon was high in the heavens, fighting its way through a sky of curdling clouds which greatly detracted from its radiance. "look, walton," said the sailor, "to windward; yonder it is all blue sky, by-and-by it will be a bright and lovely night." "by-and-by. yes," sighed walton. "but see! what is that down yonder rising white over the trees? smoke! why, walton, the barn-yards are all on fire!" almost at the same moment branson rushed upon the scene. "glad you're up, gentlemen," he gasped. "wake the squire. the servants are all astir. we must save the beasts, come of everything else what will." the farm-steading of burley was built in the usual square formation round a centre straw-yard, which even in winter was always kept so well filled that beasts might lie out all night. to the north were the stacks, and it was here the fire originated, and unluckily the wind blew from that direction. it was by no means high; but fire makes its own wind, and in less than half an hour the whole yard was ablaze and burning fiercely, while the byres, stables, and barns had all caught. from the very first these latter had been enveloped in dense rolling clouds of smoke, and sparks as thick as falling snowflakes, so that to save any of the live stock seemed almost an impossibility. with all his mania for machinery, and for improvements of every kind possible to apply to agriculture, it is indeed a wonder that the squire had not established a fire brigade on his farm. but fire was an eventuality which he had entirely left out of his reckoning, and now there was really no means of checking the terrible conflagration. as soon as the alarm was given every one did what he could to save the live stock; but the smoke was blinding, maddening, and little could be done save taking the doors off their hinges. who knows what prodigies of valour were performed that night by the humble cowmen even, in their attempts to drive the oxen and cows out, and away to a place of safety? in some instances, when they had nearly succeeded, the cattle blocked the doorways, or, having got out to the straw-yard, charged madly back again, and prevented the exit of their fellows. thus several servants ran terrible risks to their lives. they were more successful in saving the horses, and this was greatly owing to archie's presence of mind. he had dashed madly into the stable for his pet scallowa. the shetland pony had never looked more wild before. he sniffed the danger, he snorted and reared. all at once it occurred to archie to mount and ride him out. no sooner had he got on his back than he came forth like a lamb. he took him to a field and let him free, and as he was hurrying back he met little peter. "come, peter, come," he cried; "we can save the horses." the two of them rushed to the stable, and horse after horse was bridled and mounted by little peter and ridden out. but a fearful hitch occurred. tell, the squire's hunter, backed against the stable door and closed it, thus imprisoning archie, who found it impossible to open the door. the roof had already caught. the horses were screaming in terror, and rearing wildly against the walls. peter rushed away to seek assistance. he met branson, and in a word or two told him what had happened. luckily axes were at hand, and sturdy volunteers speedily smashed the door in, and poor archie, more dead than alive, with torn clothes and bleeding face, was dragged through. the scene after this must be left to imagination. but the squire reverently and fervently thanked god when the shrieks of those fire-imprisoned cattle were hushed in death, and nothing was to be heard save the crackle and roar of the flames. the fire had lit up the countryside for miles around. the moonlight itself was bright, but within a certain radius the blazing farm cast shadows against it. next morning stackyards, barn-yards, farm-steading, machinery-house, and everything pertaining to burley old farm, presented but a smouldering, blackened heap of ruins. squire broadbent entertained his poor, frightened people to an early breakfast in the servants' hall, and the most cheerful face there was that of the squire. here is his little speech: "my good folks, sit down and eat; and let us be thankful we're all here, and that no human lives are lost. my good kinswoman kate here will tell you that there never yet was an ill but there might be a worse. let us pray the worse may never come." chapter ten. "after all, it doesn't take much to make a man happy." for weeks to come neither uncle ramsay nor walton had the heart to add another sorrow to the squire's cup of misery. they knew that the fire had but brought on a little sooner a catastrophe which was already fulling; they knew that squire broadbent was virtually a ruined man. all the machinery had been rendered useless; the most of the cattle were dead; the stacks were gone; and yet, strange to say, the squire hoped on. those horses and cattle which had been saved were housed now in rudely-built sheds, among the fire-blackened ruins of their former wholesome stables and byres. one day branson, who had always been a confidential servant, sent mary in to say he wished to speak to the squire. his master came out at once. "nothing else, branson," he said. "you carry a long face, man." "the wet weather and the cold have done their work, sir. will you walk down with me to the cattle-sheds?" arrived there, he pointed to a splendid fat ox, who stood in his stall before his untouched turnips with hanging head and dry, parched nose. his hot breath was visible when he threw his head now and then uneasily round towards his loin, as if in pain. there was a visible swelling on the rump. branson placed a hand on it, and the squire could hear it "bog" and crackle. "what is that, branson? has he been hurt?" "no, sir, worse. i'll show you." he took out his sharp hunting-knife. "it won't hurt the poor beast," he said. then he cut deep into the swelling. the animal never moved. no blood followed the incision, but the gaping wound was black, and filled with air-bubbles. "the quarter-ill," said the cowman, who stood mournfully by. that ox was dead in a few hours. another died next day, two the next, and so on, though not in an increasing ratio; but in a month there was hardly an animal alive about the place except the horses. it was time now the squire should know all, and he did. he looked a chastened man when he came out from that interview with his brother and walton. but he put a right cheery face on matters when he told his wife. "we'll have to retrench," he said. "it'll be a struggle for a time, but we'll get over it right enough." present money, however, was wanted, and raised it must be. and now came the hardest blow the squire had yet received. it was a staggering one, though he met it boldly. there was then at burley old mansion a long picture gallery. it was a room in an upper story, and extended the whole length of the house--a hall in fact, and one that more than one squire broadbent had entertained his friends right royally in. from the walls not only did portraits of ancestors bold and gay, smile or frown down, but there hung there also many a splendid landscape and seascape by old masters. most of the latter had to be sold, and the gallery was closed, for the simple reason that squire broadbent, courageous though he was, could not look upon its bare and desecrated walls without a feeling of sorrow. pictures even from the drawing-room had to go also, and that room too was closed. but the breakfast-room, which opened to the lawn and rose gardens, where the wild birds sang so sweetly in summer, was left intact; so was the dining-room, and that cosy, wee green parlour in which the family delighted to assemble around the fire in the winter's evenings. squire broadbent had been always a favourite in the county--somewhat of an upstart and iconoclast though he was--so the sympathy he received was universal. iconoclast? yes, he had delighted in shivering the humble idols of others, and now his own were cast down. nobody, however, deserted him. farmers and squires might have said among themselves that they always knew broadbent was "going the pace," and that his new-fangled american notions were poorly suited to england, but in his presence they did all they could to cheer him. when the ploughing time came round they gave him what is called in the far north "a love-darg." men with teams of horses came from every farm for miles around and tilled his ground. they had luncheon in a marquee, but they would not hear of stopping to dinner. they were indeed thoughtful and kind. the parson of the parish and the doctor were particular friends of the squire. they often dropped in of an evening to talk of old times with the family by the fireside. "i'm right glad," the doctor said one evening, "to see that you don't lose heart, squire." "bless me, sir, why should i? to be sure we're poor now, but god has left us a deal of comfort, doctor, and, after all, _it doesn't take much to make a man happy_." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ boys will be boys. yes, we all know that. but there comes a time in the life of every right-thinking lad when another truth strikes home to him, that boys will be men. i rather think that the sooner a boy becomes cognisant of this fact the better. life is not all a dream; it must sooner or later become a stern reality. life is not all pleasant parade and show, like a field-day at aldershot; no, for sooner or later pomp and panoply have to be exchanged for camp-life and action, and bright uniforms are either rolled in blood and dust, or come triumphant, though tarnished, from the field of glory. life is not all plain sailing over sunlit seas, for by-and-by the clouds bank up, storms come on, and the good ship has to do battle with wind and wave. but who would have it otherwise? no one would who possesses the slightest ray of honest ambition, or a single spark of that pride of self which we need not blush to own. one day, about the beginning of autumn, rupert and archie, and their sister elsie, were in the room in the tower. they sat together in a turret chamber, elsie gazing dreamily from the window at the beautiful scenery spread out beneath. the woods and wilds, the rolling hills, the silvery stream, the half-ripe grain moving in the wind, as waves at sea move, and the silvery sunshine over all. she was in a kind of a daydream, her fingers listlessly touching a chord on the harp now and then. a pretty picture she looked, too, with her bonnie brown hair, and her bonnie blue eyes, and thorough english face, thorough english beauty. perhaps archie had been thinking something of this sort as he sat there looking at her, while rupert half-lay in the rocking-chair, which his brother had made for him, engrossed as usual in a book. whether archie did think thus or not, certain it is that presently he drew his chair close to his sister's, and laying one arm fondly on her shoulder. "what is sissie looking at?" he asked. "oh, archie," she replied, "i don't think i've been looking at anything; but i've been seeing everything and wishing!" "wishing, elsie? well, you don't look merry. what were you wishing?" "i was wishing the old days were back again, when--when father was rich; before the awful fire came, and the plague, and everything. it has made us all old, i think. wouldn't you like father was rich again?" "i am not certain; but wishes are not horses, you know." "_no_," said elsie; "only if it could even be always like this, and if you and rupert and i could be always as we are now. i think that, poor though we are, everything just now is so pretty and so pleasant. but you are going away to the university, and the place won't be the same. i shall get older faster than ever then." "well, elsie," said archie, laughing, "i am so old that i am going to make my will." rupert put down his book with a quiet smile. "what are you going to leave me, old man? scallowa?" "no, rupert, you're too long in the legs for scallowa, you have no idea what a bodkin of a boy you are growing. scallowa i will and bequeath to my pretty sister here, and i'll buy her a side-saddle, and two pennyworth of carrot seed. elsie will also have bounder, and you, rupert, shall have fuss." "anything else for me?" "don't be greedy. but i'll tell you. you shall have my tool-house, and all my tools, and my gun besides. well, this room is to be sister's own, and she shall also have my fishing-rod, and the book of flies that poor bob cooper made for me. oh, don't despise them, they are all wonders!" "well really, archie," said elsie, "you talk as earnestly as if you actually were going to die." "who said i was going to die? no, i don't mean to die till i've done much more mischief." "hush! archie." "well, i'm hushed." "why do you want to make your will?" "oh, it isn't wanting to make my will! i am--i've done it. and the 'why' is this, i'm going away." "to oxford?" "no, elsie, not to oxford. i've got quite enough latin and greek out of walton to last me all my life. i couldn't be a doctor; besides father is hardly rich enough to make me one at present. i couldn't be a doctor, and i'm not good enough to be a parson." "archie, how you talk." there were tears in elsie's eyes now. "i can't help it. i'm going away to enter life in a new land. uncle ramsay has told me all about australia. he says the old country is used up, and fortunes can be made in a few years on the other side of the globe." there was silence in the turret for long minutes; the whispering of the wind in the elm trees beneath could be heard, the murmuring of the river, and far away in the woods the cawing of rooks. "don't you cry, elsie," said archie. "i've been thinking about all this for some time, and my mind is made up. i'm going, elsie, and i know it is for the best. you don't imagine for a single moment, do you, that i'll forget the dear old times, and you all? no, no, no. i'll think about you every night, and all day long, and i'll come back rich. you don't think that i _won't_ make my fortune, do you? because i mean to, and will. so there. don't cry, elsie." "_i'm_ not going to cry, archie," said rupert. "right, rupert, you're a brick, as branson says." "i'm not old enough," continued rupert, "to give you my blessing, though i suppose kate would give you hers; but we'll all pray for you." "well," said archie thoughtfully, "that will help some." "why, you silly boy, it will help a lot." "i wish i were as good as you, rupert. but i'm just going to try hard to do my best, and i feel certain i'll be all right." "you know, roup, how well i can play cricket, and how i often easily bowl father out. well, that is because i've just tried my very hardest to become a good player; and i'm going to try my very hardest again in another way. oh, i shall win! i'm cocksure i shall. come, elsie, dry your eyes. here's my handkie. don't be a little old wife." "you won't get killed, or anything, archie?" "no; i won't get killed, or eaten either." "they do tell me," said elsie--"that is, old kate told me--that the streets in australia are all paved with gold, and that the roofs of the houses are all solid silver." "well, i don't think she is quite right," said archie, laughing. "anyhow, uncle says there is a fortune to be made, and i'm going to make it. that's all." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ archie went straight away down from that boy's room feeling every inch a man, and had an interview with his father and uncle. it is needless to relate what took place there, or to report the conversation which the older folks had that evening in the little green parlour. both father and uncle looked upon archie's request as something only natural. for both these men, singular to say, had been boys once themselves; and, in the squire's own words, archie was a son to be proud of. "we can't keep the lad always with us, mother," said squire broadbent; "and the wide world is the best of schools. i feel certain that, go where he will, he won't lose heart. if he does, i should be ashamed to own him as a son. so there! my only regret is, ramsay, that i cannot send the lad away with a better lined pocket." "my dear silly old brother, he will be better as he is. and i'm really not sure that he would not be better still if he went away, as many have gone before him, with only a stick and a bundle over his shoulder. you have a deal too much of the broadbent pride; and archie had better leave that all behind at home, or be careful to conceal it when he gets to the land of his adoption." the following is a brief list of archie's stock-in-trade when he sailed away in the good ship _dugong_ to begin the world alone: . a good stock of clothes. . a good stock of assurance. . plenty of hope. . good health and abundance of strength. . a little nest egg at an australian bank to keep him partly independent till he should be able to establish a footing. . letters of introduction, blessings, and a little pocket bible. his uncle chose his ship, and sent him away round the cape in a good old-fashioned sailing vessel. and his uncle went to glasgow to see him off, his last words being, "keep up your heart, boy, whatever happens; and keep calm in every difficulty. good-bye." away sailed the ship, and away went archie to see the cities that are paved with gold, and whose houses have roofs of solid silver. chapter eleven. book ii--at the golden gates. "spoken like his father's son." "cheer, boys, cheer, no more of idle sorrow, courage, true hearts shall bear us on our way; hope flies before, and points the bright to-morrow, let us forget the dangers of to-day." that dear old song! how many a time and oft it has helped to raise the drooping spirits of emigrants sailing away from these loved islands, never again to return! the melody itself too is such a manly one. inez dear, bring my fiddle. not a bit of bravado in that ringing air, bold and all though it is. yet every line tells of british ardour and determination--ardour that no thoughts of home or love can cool, determination that no danger can daunt. "cheer, boys, cheer." the last rays of the setting sun were lighting up the cornish cliffs, on which so few in that good ship would ever again set eyes, when those around the forecastle-head took up the song. "cheer, boys, cheer." listen! those on the quarterdeck join in the chorus, sinking in song all difference of class and rank. and they join, too, in that rattling "three times three" that bids farewell to england. then the crimson clouds high up in the west change to purple and brown, the sea grows grey, and the distant shore becomes slaty blue. soon the stars peep out, and the passengers cease to tramp about, and find their way below to the cosily-lighted saloon. archie is sitting on a sofa quite apart from all the others. the song is still ringing in his head, and, if the whole truth must be told, he feels just a trifle down-hearted. he cannot quite account for this, though he tries to, and his thoughts are upon the whole somewhat rambling. they would no doubt be quite connected if it were not for the distracting novelty of all his present surroundings, which are as utterly different from anything he has hitherto become acquainted with as if he had suddenly been transported to another planet. no, he cannot account for being dull. perhaps the motion of the ship has something to do with it, though this is not a very romantic way of putting it. archie has plenty of moral courage; and as the ship encountered head winds, and made a long and most difficult passage down through the irish sea, he braced himself to get over his morsel of _mal de mer_, and has succeeded. he is quite cross with himself for permitting his mind to be tinged with melancholy. that song ought to have set him up. "why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?" oh, archie is not weeping; catch him doing anything so girlish and peevish! he would not cry in his cabin where he could do so without being seen, and it is not likely he would permit moisture to appear in his eyes in the saloon here. yet his home never did seem to him so delightful, so cosy, so happy, as the thoughts of it do now. why had he not loved it even more than he did when it was yet all around him? the dear little green parlour, his gentle lady mother that used to knit so quietly by the fire in the winter's evenings, listening with pleasure to his father's daring schemes and hopeful plans. his bonnie sister, elsie, so proud of him--archie; rupert, with his pale, classical face and gentle smile; matter-of-fact walton; jolly old uncle ramsay. they all rose up before his mind's eye as they had been; nay but as they might be even at that very moment. and the room in the tower, the evenings spent there in summer when daylight was fading over the hills and woods, and the rooks flying wearily home to their nests in the swaying elm trees; or in winter when the fire burned brightly on the hearth, and weird old kate sat in her high-backed chair, telling her strange old-world stories, with branson, wide-eyed, fiddle in hand, on a seat near her, and bounder--poor bounder--on the bear's skin. then the big kitchen, or servants' hall--the servants that all loved "master archie" so dearly, and laughed and enjoyed every prank he used to play. dear old burley! should he ever see it again? a week has not passed since he left it, and yet it seems and feels a lifetime. he was young a week ago; now he is old, very old--nearly a man. nearly? well, nearly, in years; in thoughts, and feelings, and circumstances even--_quite_ a man. but then he should not feel down-hearted for this simple reason; he had left home under such bright auspices. many boys run away to sea. the difference between their lot and his is indeed a wide one. yes, that must be very sad. no home life to look back upon, no friends to think of or love, no pleasant present, no hopeful future. then archie, instead of letting his thoughts dwell any longer on the past, began at once to bridge over for himself the long period of time that must elapse ere he should return to burley old farm. of course there would be changes. he dared say walton would be away; but elsie and rupert would still be there, and his father and mother, looking perhaps a little older, but still as happy. and the burned farm-steading would be restored, or if it were not, it soon should be after he came back; for he would be rich, rolling in wealth in fact, if half the stories he had heard of australia were true, even allowing that _all_ the streets were not paved with gold, and _all_ the houses not roofed with sparkling silver. so engrossed was he with these pleasant thoughts, that he had not observed the advent of a passenger who had entered the saloon, and sat quietly down on a camp-stool near him. a man of about forty, dressed in a rough pilot suit of clothes, with a rosy weather-beaten but pleasant face, and a few grey hairs in his short black beard. he was looking at archie intently when their eyes met, and the boy felt somewhat abashed. the passenger, however, did not remove his glance instantly; he spoke instead. "you've never been to sea before, have you?" "no, sir; never been off the land till a week ago." "going to seek your fortune?" "yes; i'm going to _make_ my fortune." "bravo! i hope you will." "what's to hinder me?" "nothing; oh, nothing much! everybody doesn't though. but you seem to have a bit of go in you." "are you going to make yours?" said archie. the stranger laughed. "no," he replied. "unluckily, perhaps, mine was made for me. i've been out before too, and i'm going again to see things." "you're going in quest of adventure?" "i suppose that is really it. that is how the story-books put it, anyhow. but i don't expect to meet with adventures like sinbad the sailor, you know; and i don't think i would like to have a little old man of the sea with his little old legs round my neck." "australia is a very wonderful place, isn't it?" "yes; wonderfully wonderful. everything is upside-down there, you know. to begin with, the people walk with their heads downwards. some of the trees are as tall as the moon, and at certain seasons of the year the bark comes tumbling off them like rolls of shoeleather. others are shaped like bottles, others again have heads of waving grass, and others have ferns for tops. there are trees, too, that drop all their leaves to give the flowers a chance; and these are so brilliantly red, and so numerous, that the forest where they grow looks all on fire. well, many of the animals walk or jump on two legs, instead of running on four. does that interest you?" "yes. tell me something more about birds." "well, ducks are everywhere in australia, and many kinds are as big as geese. they seem to thrive. and ages ago, it is said by the natives, the moles in australia got tired of living in the dark, and held a meeting above-ground, and determined to live a different mode of life. so they grew longer claws, and short, broad, flat tails, and bills like ducks, and took to the water, and have been happy ever since. "well, there are black swans in abundance; and though it is two or three years since i was out last, i cannot forget a beautiful bird, something betwixt a pheasant and peacock, and the cock's tail is his especial delight. it is something really to be proud of, and at a distance looks like a beautiful lyre, strings and all. the cockatoos swarm around the trees, and scream and laugh at the lyre-bird giving himself airs, but i daresay this is all envy. the hen bird is not a beauty, but her chief delight is to watch the antics and attitudes of her lord and master as he struts about making love and fun to her time about, at one moment singing a kind of low, sweet song, at another mocking every sound that is heard in the forest, every noise made by man or bird or beast. no wonder the female lyre-bird thinks her lord the cleverest and most beautiful creature in the world! "then there is a daft-looking kingfisher, all head and bill, and wondering eyes, who laughs like a jackass, and makes you laugh to hear him laugh. so loud does he laugh at times that his voice drowns every other sound in the forest. "there is a bird eight feet high, partly cassowary, partly ostrich, that when attacked kicks like a horse, or more like a cow, because it kicks sideways. but if i were to sit here till our good ship reached the cape, i could not tell you about half the curious, beautiful, and ridiculous creatures and things you will find in australia if you move much about. i do think that that country beats all creation for the gorgeousness of its wild birds and wild flowers; and if things do seem a bit higgledy-piggledy at first, you soon settle down to it, and soon tire wondering at anything. "but," continued the stranger, "with all their peculiarities, the birds and beasts are satisfied with their get-up, and pleased with their surroundings, although all day long in the forests the cockatoos, and parrots, and piping crows, and lyre-birds do little else but joke and chaff one another because they all look so comical. "yes, lad, australia you will find is a country of contrarieties, and the only wonder to me is that the rivers don't all run up-hill instead of running down; and mind, they are sometimes broader at their sources than they are at their ends." "there is plenty of gold there?" asked archie. "oh, yes, any amount; but--" "but what, sir?" "the real difficulty--in fact, the only difficulty--is the finding of it." "but that, i suppose, can be got over." "come along with me up on deck, and we'll talk matters over. it is hot and stuffy down here; besides, they are going to lay the cloth." arrived at the quarterdeck, the stranger took hold of archie's arm, as if he had known him all his life. "now," he said, "my name is vesey, generally called captain vesey, because i never did anything that i know of to merit the title. i've been in an army or two in different parts of the globe as a free lance, you know." "how nice!" "oh, delightful!" said captain vesey, though from the tone of his voice archie was doubtful as to his meaning. "well," he added, "i own a yacht, now waiting for me, i believe, at the cape of good hope, if she isn't sunk, or burned, or something. and your tally?" "my what, sir?" "your tally, your name, and the rest of it?" "archie broadbent, son of squire broadbent, of burley old farm, northumberland." "what! you a son of charlie broadbent? yankee charlie, as we used to call him at the club. well, well, well, wonders will never cease; and it only shows how small the world is, after all." "and you used to know my father, sir?" "my dear boy, i promised myself the pleasure of calling on him at burley. i've only been home for two months, however; and i heard--well, boy, i needn't mince matters--i heard your father had been unfortunate, and had left his place, and gone nobody could tell me whither." "no," said archie, laughing, "it isn't quite so bad as all that; and it is bound to come right in the end." "you are talking very hopefully, lad. i could trace a resemblance in your face to someone i knew the very moment i sat down. and there is something like the same cheerful ring in your voice there used to be in his. you really are a chip of the old block." "so they say." and archie laughed again, pleased by this time. "but, you know, lad, you are very young to be going away to seek your fortune." "i'll get over that, sir." "i hope so. of course, you won't go pottering after gold!" "i don't know. if i thought i would find lots, i would go like a shot." "well, take my advice, and don't. there, i do not want to discourage you; but you better turn your mind to farming--to squatting." "that wouldn't be very genteel, would it?" "genteel! why, lad, if you're going to go in for genteelity, you'd best have stayed at home." "well, but i have an excellent education. i can write like copper-plate. i am a fair hand at figures, and well up in latin and greek; and--" "ha! ha! ha!" captain vesey laughed aloud. "latin and greek, eh? you must keep that to yourself, boy." "and," continued archie boldly, "i have a whole lot of capital introductions. i'm sure to get into a good office in sydney; and in a few years--" archie stopped short, because by the light that streamed from the skylight he could see that captain vesey was looking at him half-wonderingly, but evidently amused. "go on," said the captain. "not a word more," said archie doggedly. "finish your sentence, lad." "i shan't. there!" "well, i'll do it for you. you'll get into a delightful office, with mahogany writing-desks and stained glass windows, turkey carpet and an easy-chair. your employer will take you out in his buggy every sunday to dine with him; and after a few years, as you say, he'll make you a co-partner; and you'll end by marrying his daughter, and live happy ever after." "you're laughing at me, sir. i'll go down below." "yes, i'm laughing at you, because you're only a greenhorn; and it is as well that i should squeeze a little of the lime-juice out of you as anyone else. no, don't go below. mind, i was your father's friend." "yes," pouted poor archie; "but you don't appear to be mine. you are throwing cold water over my hopes; you are smashing my idols." "a very pretty speech, archie broadbent. but mind you this--a hut on solid ground is better far than a castle in the air. and it is better that i should storm and capsize your cloud-castle, than that an absolute stranger did so." "well, i suppose you are right. forgive me for being cross." "spoken like his father's son," said captain vesey, grasping and shaking the hand that archie extended to him. "now we know each other. ding! ding! ding! there goes the dinner-bell. sit next to me." chapter twelve. "keep on your cap. i was once a poor man myself." the voyage out was a long, even tedious one; but as it has but little bearing on the story i forbear to describe it at length. the ship had a passenger for madeira, parcels for ascension and saint helena, and she lay in at the cape for a whole week. here captain vesey left the vessel, bidding archie a kind farewell, after dining with him at the fountain, and roaming with him all over the charming botanical gardens. "i've an idea we'll meet again," he said as he bade him adieu. "if god spares me, i'll be sure to visit sydney in a year or two, and i hope to find you doing well. you'll know if my little yacht, the _barracouta_, comes in, and i know you'll come off and see me. i hope to find you with as good a coat on your back as you have now." then the _dugong_ sailed away again; but the time now seemed longer to archie than ever, for in captain vesey he really had lost a good friend--a friend who was all the more valuable because he spoke the plain, unvarnished truth; and if in doing so one or two of the young man's cherished idols were brought tumbling down to the ground, it was all the better for the young man. it showed those idols had feet of clay, else a little cold water thrown over them would hardly have had such an effect. i am sorry to say, however, that no sooner had the captain left the ship, than archie set about carefully collecting the pieces of those said idols and patching them up again. "after all," he thought to himself, "this captain vesey, jolly fellow as he is, never had to struggle with fortune as i shall do; and i don't think he has the same pluck in him that my father has, and that people say i have. we'll see, anyhow. other fellows have been fortunate in a few years, why shouldn't i? 'in a few years?' yes, these are the very words captain vesey laughed at me for. 'in a few years?' to be sure. and why not? what _is_ the good of a fortune to a fellow after he gets old, and all worn down with gout and rheumatism? 'cheer, boys, cheer;' i'm going in to win." how slow the ship sailed now, apparently; and when it did blow it usually blew the wrong way, and she would have to stand off and on, or go tack and half-tack against it, like a man with one long leg and one short. but she was becalmed more than once, and this did seem dreadful. it put archie in mind of a man going to sleep in the middle of his work, which is not at all the correct thing to do. well, there is nothing like a sailing ship after all for teaching one the virtue of patience; and at last archie settled down to his sea life. he was becoming quite a sailor--as hard as the wheel-spokes, as brown as the binnacle. he was quite a favourite with the captain and officers, and with all hands fore and aft. indeed he was very often in the forecastle or galley of an evening listening to the men's yarns or songs, and sometimes singing a verse or two himself. he was just beginning to think the _dugong_ was vanderdecken's ship, and that she never would make port at all, when one day at dinner he noticed that the captain was unusually cheerful. "in four or five days more, please god," said he, "we'll be safe in sydney." archie almost wished he had not known this, for these four or five days were the longest of any he had yet passed. he had commenced to worship his patched-up idols again, and felt happier now, and more full of hope and certainty of fortune than he had done during the whole voyage. sometimes they sighted land. once or twice birds flew on board--such bright, pretty birds too they looked. and birds also went wheeling and whirring about the ship--gulls, the like of which he had never seen before. they were more elegant in shape and purer in colour than ours, and their voices were clear and ringing. dick whittington construed words out of the sound of the chiming bells. therefore it is not at all wonderful that archie was pleased to believe that some of these beautiful birds were screaming him a welcome to the land of gold. just at or near the end of the voyage half a gale of wind blew the ship considerably out of her course. then the breeze went round to fair again, the sea went down, and the birds came back; and one afternoon a shout was heard from the foretop that made archie's heart jump for very joy. "land ho!" that same evening, as the sun was setting behind the blue mountains, leaving a gorgeous splendour of cloud-scenery that may be equalled, but is never surpassed in any country, the _dugong_ sailed slowly into sydney harbour, and cast anchor. at last! yes, at last. here were the golden gates of the el dorado that were to lead the ambitious boy to fortune, and all the pleasures fortune is capable of bestowing. archie had fancied that sydney would prove to be a very beautiful place; but not in his wildest imaginings had he conjured up a scene of such surpassing loveliness as that which now lay before him, and around him as well. on the town itself his eye naturally first rested. there it lay, miles upon miles of houses, towers, and steeples, spread out along the coast, and rising inland. the mountains and hills beyond, their rugged grandeur softened and subdued in the purple haze of the day's dying glory; the sky above, with its shades of orange, saffron, crimson, opal, and grey; and the rocks, to right and left in the nearer distance, with their dreamy clouds of foliage, from which peeped many a lordly mansion, many a fairy-like palace. he hardly noticed the forests of masts; he was done with ships, done with masts, for a time at least; but his inmost heart responded to the distant hum of city life, that came gently stealing over the waters, mingling with the chime of evening bells, and the music of the happy sea-gulls. would he, could he, get on shore to-night? "no," the first officer replied, "not before another day." so he stood on deck, or walked about, never thinking of food--what is food or drink to a youth who lives on hope?--till the gloaming shades gave place to night, till the southern stars shone over the hills and harbour, and strings upon strings of lamps and lights were hung everywhere across the city above and below. now the fairy scene is changed. archie is on shore. it is the forenoon of another day, and the sun is warm though not uncomfortably hot. there is so much that is bracing and invigorating in the very air, that he longs to be doing something at once. longs to commence laying the foundation-stone of that temple of fortune which--let captain vesey say what he likes--he, archie broadbent, is bent upon building. he has dressed himself in his very english best. his clothes are new and creaseless, his gloves are spotless, his black silk hat immaculate, the cambric handkerchief that peeps coyly from his breast pocket is whiter than the snow, his boots fit like gloves, and shine as softly black as his hat itself, and his cane even must be the envy of every young man he meets. strange to say, however, no one appears to take a very great deal of notice of him, though, as he glances towards the shop windows, he can see as if in a mirror that one or two passengers have looked back and smiled. but it couldn't surely have been at him? impossible! the people, however, are apparently all very active and very busy, though cool, with a self-possession that he cannot help envying, and which he tries to imitate without any marked degree of success. there is an air of luxury and refinement about many of the buildings that quite impresses the young man; but he cannot help noticing that there is also a sort of business air about the streets which he hardly expected to find, and which reminds him forcibly of glasgow and manchester. he almost wishes it had been otherwise. he marches on boldly enough. archie feels as if on a prospecting tour--prospecting for gold. of course he is going to make his fortune, but how is he going to begin? that is the awkward part of the business. if he could once get in the thin end of the wedge he would quickly drive it home. "there is nothing like ambition. if we steer a steady course." of course there isn't. but staring into a china-shop window will do him little good. i do not believe he saw anything in that window however. only, on turning away from it, his foot goes splash into a pool of dirty water on the pavement, or rather on what ought to be a pavement. that boot is ruined for the day, and this reminds him that sydney streets are _not_ paved with gold, but with very unromantic matter-of-fact mud. happy thought! he will dine. the waiters are very polite, but not obsequious, and he makes a hearty meal, and feels more at home. shall he tip this waiter fellow? is it the correct thing to tip waiters? will the waiter think him green if he does, or green if he doesn't? these questions, trifling though they may appear, really annoyed archie; but he erred on the right side, and did tip the waiter--well too. and the waiter brightened up, and asked him if he would like to see a playbill. then this reminded archie that he might as well call on some of the people to whom he had introductions. so he pulled out a small bundle of letters, and he asked the waiter where this, that, and t'other street was; and the waiter brought a map, and gave him so many hints, that when he found himself on the street again he did not feel half so foreign. he had something to do now, something in view. besides he had dined. "yes, he'd better drive," he said to himself, "it would look better." he lifted a finger, and a hansom rattled along, and drew up by the kerb. he had not expected to find cabs in sydney. his card-case was handy, and his first letter also. he might have taken a 'bus or tram. there were plenty passing, and very like glasgow 'buses they were too; from the john with the ribbons to the cad at the rear. but a hansom certainly looked more aristocratic. aristocratic? yes. but were there any aristocrats in sydney? was there any real blue blood in the place? he had not answered those questions to his satisfaction, when the hansom stopped so suddenly that he fell forward. "wait," he said to the driver haughtily. "certainly, sir." archie did not observe, however, the grimace the jehu made to another cabman, as he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, else he would hardly have been pleased. there was quite a business air about the office into which the young man ushered himself, but no one took much notice of him. if he had had an older face under that brand-new hat, they might have been more struck with his appearance. "ahem! aw--!" archie began. "one minute, sir," said the clerk nearest him. "fives in forty thousand? fives in forty are eight--eight thousand." the clerk advanced pen in mouth. "do you come from jenkins's about those bills?" "no, i come from england; and i've a letter of introduction to your _master_." archie brought the last word out with a bang. "mr berry isn't in. will you leave a message?" "no, thank you." "as you please." archie was going off, when the clerk called after him, "here is mr berry himself, sir." a tall, brown-faced, elderly gentleman, with very white hair and pleasant smile. he took archie into the office, bade him be seated, and slowly read the letter; then he approached the young man and shook hands. the hand felt like a dead fish's tail in archie's, and somehow the smile had vanished. "i'm really glad to see your father's son," he said. "sorry though to hear that he has had a run of bad luck. very bad luck it must be, too," he added, "to let you come out here." "indeed, sir; but i mean to make my for--that is, i want to make my living." "ay, young man, living's more like it; and i wish i could help you. there's a wave of depression over this side of our little island at present, and i don't know that any office in town has a genteel situation to offer you." archie's soul-heat sank a degree or two. "you think, sir, that--" "i think that you would have done better at home. it would be cruel of me not to tell you the truth. now i'll give you an example. we advertised for a clerk just a week since--" "i wish i'd been here." "my young friend, you wouldn't have had the ghost of a chance. we had five-and-thirty to pick and choose from, and we took the likeliest. i'm really sorry. if anything should turn up, where shall i communicate?" where should he communicate? and this was his father's best friend, from whom the too sanguine father expected archie would have an invitation to dinner at once, and a general introduction to sydney society. "oh, it is no great matter about communicating, mr berry; aw!--no matter at all! i can afford to wait a bit and look round me. i--aw!-- good morning, sir." away stalked the young northumbrian, like a prince of the blood. "a chip of the old block," muttered mr berry, as he resumed his desk work. "poor lad, he'll have to come down a peg though." the cabby sprang towards the young nob. "where next, sir?" "grindlay's." archie was not more successful here, nor anywhere else. but at the end of a week, during which time he had tried as hard as any young man had ever tried before in sydney or any other city to find some genteel employment, he made a wise resolve; viz, to go into lodgings. he found that living in a hotel, though very cheerful, made a terrible hole in his purse; so he brought himself "down a peg" by the simple process of "going up" nearer the sky. here is the explanation of this paradox. it was archie's custom to spend his forenoons looking for something to do, and his evenings walking in the suburbs. poor, lonely lad, that never a soul in the city cared for, any more than if he had been a stray cat, he found it wearisome, heart-breaking work wandering about the narrow, twisting streets and getting civilly snubbed. he felt more of a gentleman when dining. afterwards his tiredness quite left him, and hope swelled his heart once more. so out he would go and away--somewhere, anywhere; it did not matter so long as he could see woods, and water, and houses. oh, such lovely suburban villas, with cool verandahs, round which flowering creepers twined, and lawns shaded by dark green waving banana trees, beneath which he could ofttimes hear the voices of merry children, or the tinkle of the light guitar. he would give reins to his fancy then, and imagine things--such sweet things! yes, he would own one of the biggest and most delightful of these mansions; he should keep fleet horses, a beautiful carriage, a boat--he must have a boat, or should it be a gondola? yes, that would be nicer and newer. in this boat, when the moonlight silvered the water, he would glide over the bay, returning early to his happy home. his bonnie sister should be there, his brother rupert--the student--his mother, and his hero, that honest, bluff, old father of his. what a dear, delightful dream! no wonder he did not care to return to the realities of his city life till long after the sun had set over the hills, and the stars were twinkling down brighter and lovelier far than those lights he had so admired the night his ship arrived. he was returning slowly one evening and was close to the city, but in a rather lonely place, when he noticed something dark under the shade of a tree, and heard a girl's voice say: "dearie me! as missus says; but ain't i jolly tired just!" "who is that?" said archie. "on'y me, sir; on'y sarah. don't be afear'd. i ain't a larrikin. help this 'ere box on my back like a good chummie." "it's too heavy for your slight shoulders," quoth gallant archie. "i don't mind carrying it a bit." "what, a gent like you! why, sir, you're greener than they make 'em round here!" "i'm from england." "ho, ho! well, that accounts for the milk. so'm i from hengland. this way, chummie." they hadn't far to go. "my missus lives two story up, top of a ware'us, and i've been to the station for that 'ere box. she do take it out o' me for all the wage. she do." archie carried the box up the steep stairs, and sarah's mistress herself opened the door and held a candle. a thin, weary-looking body, with whom sarah seemed to be on the best and most friendly terms. "brought my young man," said sarah. "ain't he a smartie? but, heigho! _so_ green! _you_ never!" "come in a minute, sir, and rest you. never mind this silly girl." archie did go in a minute; five, ten, ay fifteen, and by that time he had not only heard all this ex-policeman's wife's story, but taken a semi-attic belonging to her. and he felt downright independent and happy when next day he took possession. for now he would have time to really look round, and it was a relief to his mind that he would not be spending much money. archie could write home cheerfully now. he was sure that something would soon turn up, something he could accept, and which would not be derogatory to the son of a northumbrian squire. more than one influential member of commercial society had promised "to communicate with him at the very earliest moment." but, alas! weeks flew by, and weeks went into months, and no more signs of the something were apparent than he had seen on the second day of his arrival. archie was undoubtedly "a game un," as sarah called him; but his heart began to feel very heavy indeed. living as cheaply as he could, his money would go done at last. what then? write home for more? he shuddered to think of such a thing. if his first friend, captain vesey, had only turned up now, he would have gone and asked to be taken as a hand before the mast. but captain vesey did not. a young man cannot be long in sydney without getting into a set. archie did, and who could blame him. they were not a rich set, nor a very fast set; but they had a morsel of a club-room of their own. they formed friendships, took strolls together, went occasionally to the play, and often had little "adventures" about town, the narratives of which, when retailed in the club, found ready listeners, and of course were stretched to the fullest extent of importance. they really were not bad fellows, and would have done archie a good turn if they could. but they could not. they laughed a deal at first at his english notions and ideas; but gradually archie got over his greenness, and began to settle down to colonial life, and would have liked sydney very much indeed if he had only had something to do. the ex-policeman's wife was very kind to her lodger. so was sarah; though she took too many freedoms of speech with him, which tended to lower his english squirearchical dignity very much. but, to do her justice, sarah did not mean any harm. only once did archie venture to ask about the ex-policeman. "what did he do?" "oh, he drinks!" said sarah, as quietly as if drinking were a trade of some kind. archie asked no more. rummaging in a box one day, archie found his last letter of introduction. it had been given him by uncle ramsay. "you'll find him a rough and right sort of a stick," his uncle had said. "he _was_ my steward, now he is a wealthy man, and can knock down his cheque for many thousands." archie dressed in his best and walked right away that afternoon to find the address. it was one of the very villas he had often passed, in a beautiful place close by the water-side. what would be his reception here? this question was soon put at rest. he rang the bell, and was ushered into a luxuriously-furnished room; a room that displayed more richness than taste. a very beautiful girl--some thirteen years of age perhaps--got up from a grand piano, and stood before him. archie was somewhat taken aback, but bowed as composedly as he could. "surely," he thought, "_she_ cannot be the daughter of the rough and right sort of a stick who had been steward to his uncle. he had never seen so sweet a face, such dreamy blue eyes, or such wealth of hair before. "did you want to see papa? sit down. i'll go and find him." "will you take this letter to him?" said archie. and the girl left, letter in hand. ten minutes after the "rough stick" entered, whistling "sally come up." "hullo! hullo!" he cried, "so here we are." there he was without doubt--a big, red, jolly face, like a full moon orient, a loose merino jacket, no waistcoat or necktie, but a cricketer's cap on the very back of his bushy head. he struck archie a friendly slap on the back. "keep on yer cap," he shouted, "i was once a poor man myself." archie was too surprised and indignant to speak. "well, well, well," said mr winslow, "they do tell me wonders won't never cease. what a whirligig of a world it is. one day i'm cleanin' a gent's boots. gent is a capting of a ship. next day gent's nephew comes to me to beg for a job. say, young man, what'll ye drink?" "i didn't come to _drink_, mr winslow, neither did i come to _beg_." "whew-ew-ew," whistled the quondam steward, "here's pride; here's a touch o' the old country. why, young un, i might have made you my under-gardener." the girl at this moment entered the room. she had heard the last sentence. "papa!" she remonstrated. then she glided out by the casement window. burning blushes suffused archie's cheeks as he hurried over the lawn soon after; angry tears were in his eyes. his hand was on the gate-latch when he felt a light touch on his arm. it was the girl. "don't be angry with poor papa," she said, almost beseechingly. "no, no," archie cried, hardly knowing what he did say. "what is your name?" "etheldene." "what a beautiful name! i--i will never forget it. good-bye." he ran home with the image of the child in his mind--on his brain. sarah--plain sarah--met him at the top of the stairs. he brushed past her. "la! but ye does look glum," said sarah. archie locked his door. he did not want to see even sarah--homely sarah--that night. chapter thirteen. "something in soap." it was a still, sultry night in november. archie's balcony window was wide open, and if there had been a breath of air anywhere he would have had the benefit of it. that was one advantage of having a room high up above the town, and there were several others. for instance, it was quieter, more retired, and his companions did not often take him by storm, because they objected to climb so many stairs. dingy, small, and dismal some might have called it, but archie always felt at home up in his semi-attic. it even reminded him of his room in the dear old tower at burley. then his morsel of balcony, why that was worth all the money he paid for the room itself; and as for the view from this charming, though non-aristocratic elevation, it was simply unsurpassed, unsurpassable--looking far away over a rich and fertile country to the grand old hills beyond--a landscape that, like the sea, was still the same, but ever changing; sometimes smiling and green, sometimes bathed in tints of purple and blue, sometimes grey as a sky o'ercast with rain clouds. yes, he loved it, and he would take a chair out here on a moonlight evening and sit and think and dream. but on this particular night sleep, usually so kind to the young man, absolutely refused to visit his pillow. he tried to woo the goddess on his right side, on his left, on his back; it was all in vain. finally, he sat bolt upright in his little truckle bed in silent defiance. "i don't care," he said aloud, "whether i sleep or not. what does it matter? i've nothing to do to-morrow. heigho!" nothing to do to-morrow! how sad! and he so young too. were all his dreams of future fortune to fade and pass away like this--nothing to do? why he envied the very boys who drove the mill wagons that went lazily rolling past his place every day. they seemed happy, and so contented; while he--why his very life--had come to be all one continued fever. "nothing to do yet, sir?" it was the ordinary salutation of his hard-working mite of a landlady when he came home to his meal in the afternoon. "i knows by the weary way ye walks upstairs, sir, you aren't successful yet, sir." "nothink to do yet, sir?" they were the usual words that the slavey used when she dragged upstairs of an evening with his tea-things. "nothink to do," she would say, as she deposited the tray on the table, and sank _sans ceremonie_ into the easy-chair. "nothink to do. what a 'appy life to lead! now 'ere's me a draggin' up and down stairs, and a carryin' of coals and a sweepin', and a dustin' and a hanswering of the door, till, what wi' the 'eat and the dust and the fleas, my poor little life's well-nigh worrited out o' me. heigho! hif i was honly back again in merrie england, catch me ever goin' to any australia any more. but you looks a horned gent, sir. nothink to do! my eye and betty martin, ye oughter to be 'appy, if you ain't." archie got up to-night, enrobed himself in his dressing-gown, and went and sat on his balcony. this soothed him. the stars were very bright, and seemed very near. he did not care for other companionship than these and his own all-too-busy thoughts. there was hardly a sound to be heard, except now and then the hum of a distant railway train increasing to a harsh roar as it crossed the bridge, then becoming subdued again and muffled as it entered woods, or went rolling over a soft and open country. nothing to do! but he must and would do something. why should he starve in a city of plenty? he had arms and hands, if he hadn't a head. indeed, he had begun of late to believe that his head, which he used to think so much of, was the least important part of his body. he caught himself feeling his forearm and his biceps. why this latter had got smaller and beautifully less of late. he had to shut his fist hard to make it perceptible to touch. this was worse and worse, he thought. he would not be able to lift a fifty-six if he wanted to before long, or have strength enough left to wield a stable broom if he should be obliged to go as gardener to winslow. "what next, i wonder?" he said to himself. "first i lose my brains, if ever i had any, and now i have lost my biceps; the worst loss last." he lit his candle, and took up the newspaper. "i'll pocket my pride, and take a porter's situation," he murmured. "let us see now. hullo! what is this? 'apprentice wanted--the drug trade--splendid opening to a pushing youngster.' well, i am a pushing youngster. 'premium required.' i don't care, i have a bit of money left, and i'll pay it like a man if there is enough. why the drug trade is grand. sydney drug-stores beat glasgow's all to pieces. druggists and drysalters have their carriages and mansions, their town and country houses. hurrah! i'll be something yet!" he blew out the candle, and jumped into bed. the gentle goddess required no further wooing. she took him in her lap, and he went off at once like a baby. rap--rap--rap--rap! "hullo! yes; coming, sarah; coming." it was broad daylight; and when he admitted sarah at last, with the breakfast-tray, she told him she had been up and down fifty times, trying to make him hear. sarah was given to a little exaggeration at times. "it was all very well for a gent like he," she said, "but there was her a-slavin' and a-toilin', and all the rest of it." "well, well, my dear," he cut in, "i'm awfully sorry, i assure you." sarah stopped right in the centre of the room, still holding the tray, and looked at him. "what!" she cried. "ye ain't a-going to marry me then, young man! what are ye my-dearing me for?" "no, sarah," replied archie, laughing; "i'm not going to marry you; but i've hopes of a good situation, and--" "is that all?" sarah dumped down the tray, and tripped away singing. archie's interview with the advertiser was of a most satisfactory character. he did not like the street, it was too new and out of the way; but then it would be a beginning. he did not like his would-be employer, but he dared say he would improve on acquaintance. there was plenty in the shop, though the place was dingy and dirty, and the windows small. the spiders evidently had fine times of it here, and did not object to the smell of drugs. he was received by mr glorie himself in a little back sanctum off the little back shop. the premium for apprenticing archie was rather more than the young man could give; but this being explained to the proprietor of these beautiful premises, and owner of all the spiders, he graciously condescended to take half. archie's salary--a wretched pittance--was to commence at once after articles were signed; and mr glorie promised to give him a perfect insight into the drug business, and make a man of him, and "something else besides," he added, nodding to archie in a mysterious manner. the possessor of the strange name was a queer-looking man; there did not appear much glory about him. he was very tall, very lanky, and thin, his shoulders sloping downwards like a well-pointed pencil, while his face was solemn and elongated, like your own, reader, if you look at it in a spoon held lengthways. the articles were signed, and archie walked home on feathers apparently. he went upstairs singing. his landlady ran to the door. "work at last?" archie nodded and smiled. when sarah came in with the dinner things she danced across the room, bobbing her queer, old-fashioned face and crying-- "lawk-a-daisy, diddle-um-doo, missus says you've got work to do!" "yes, sarah, at long last, and i'm so happy." "'appy, indeed!" sang sarah. "why, ye won't be the gent no longer!" archie certainly had got work to do. for a time his employer kept him in the shop. there was only one other lad, and he went home with the physic, and what with studying hard to make himself _au fait_ in prescribing and selling seidlitz powders and gum drops, archie was pretty busy. so months flew by. then his long-faced employer took him into the back premises, and proceeded to initiate him into the mysteries of the something else that was to make a man of him. "there's a fortune in it," said mr glorie, pointing to a bubbling grease-pot. "yes, young sir, a vast fortune." "what is the speciality?" archie ventured to enquire. "the speciality, young sir?" replied mr glorie, his face relaxing into something as near a smile as it would permit of. "the speciality, sir, is soap. a transparent soap. a soap, young sir, that is destined to revolutionise the world of commerce, and bring _my_ star to the ascendant after struggling for two long decades with the dark clouds of adversity." so this was the mystery. archie was henceforward, so it appeared, to live in an atmosphere of scented soap; his hope must centre in bubbles. he was to assist this mr glorie's star to rise to the zenith, while his own fortune might sink to nadir. and he had paid his premium. it was swallowed up and simmering in that ugly old grease-pot, and except for the miserable salary he received from mr glorie he might starve. poor archie! he certainly did not share his employer's enthusiasm, and on this particular evening he did not walk home on feathers, and when he sat down to supper his face must have appeared to sarah quite as long and lugubrious as mr glorie's; for she raised her hands and said: "lawk-a-doodle, sir! what's the matter? have ye killed anybody?" "not yet," answered archie; "but i almost feel i could." he stuck to his work, however, like a man; but that work became more and more allied to soap, and the front shop hardly knew him any more. he had informed the fellows at the club-room that he was employed at last; that he was apprenticed to the drug trade. but the soap somehow leaked out, and more than once, when he was introduced to some new-comer, he was styled-- "mr broadbent," and "something in soap." this used to make him bite his lips in anger. he would not have cared half so much had he not joined this very club, with a little flourish of trumpets, as young broadbent, son of squire broadbent, of burley old castle, england. and now he was "something in soap." he wrote home to his sister in the bitterness of his soul, telling her that all his visions of greatness had ended in bubbles of rainbow hue, and that he was "something in soap." he felt sorry for having done so as soon as the letter was posted. he met old winslow one day in the street, and this gentleman grasped archie's small aristocratic hand in his great brown bear's paw, and congratulated him on having got on his feet at last. "yes," said archie with a sneer and a laugh, "i'm 'something in soap.'" "and soap's a good thing i can tell you. soap's not to be despised. there's a fortune in soap. i had an uncle in soap. stick to it, my lad, and it'll stick to you." but when a new apprentice came to the shop one day, and was installed in the front door drug department, while he himself was relegated to the slums at the back, his cup of misery seemed full, and he proceeded forthwith to tell this mr glorie what he thought of him. mr glorie's face got longer and longer and longer, and he finally brought his clenched fist down with such a bang on the counter, that every bottle and glass in the place rang like bells. "i'll have the law on you," he shouted. "i don't care; i've done with you. i'm sick of you and your soap." he really did not mean to do it; but just at that moment his foot kicked against a huge earthenware jar full of oil, and shivered it in pieces. "you've broke your indenture! you--you--" "i've broken your jar, anyhow," cried archie. he picked up his hat, and rushing out, ran recklessly off to his club. he was "something in soap" no more. he was beggared, but he was free, unless indeed mr glorie should put him in gaol. chapter fourteen. the king may come in the cadger's way. mr glorie did not put his runaway apprentice in gaol. he simply advertised for another--with a premium. poor archie! his condition in life was certainly not to be envied now. he had but very few pounds between him and actual want. he was rich in one thing alone--pride. he would sooner starve than write home for a penny. no, he _could_ die in a gutter, but he could not bear to think they should know of it at burley old farm. long ago, in the bonnie woods around burley, he used to wonder to find dead birds in dark crannies of the rocks. he could understand it now. they had crawled into the crannies to die, out of sight and alone. his club friends tried to rally him. they tried to cheer him up in more ways than one. be it whispered, they tried to make him seek solace in gambling and in the wine-cup. i do not think that i have held up my hero as a paragon. on the contrary, i have but represented him as he was--a bold, determined lad, with many and many a fault; but now i am glad to say this one thing in his favour: he was not such a fool as to try to drown his wits in wine, nor to seek to make money questionably by betting and by cards. after archie's letter home, in which he told elsie that he was "something in soap," he had written another, and a more cheerful one. it was one which cost him a good deal of trouble to write; for he really could not get over the notion that he was telling white lies when he spoke of "his prospects in life, and his hopes being on the ascendant;" and as he dropped it into the receiver, he felt mean, demoralised; and he came slowly along george street, trying to make himself believe that any letter was better than no letter, and that he would hardly have been justified in telling the whole truth. well, at burley old farm things had rather improved, simply for this reason: squire broadbent had gone in heavily for retrenchment. he had proved the truth of his own statement: "it does not take much in this world to make a man happy." the squire was happy when he saw his wife and children happy. the former was always quietly cheerful, and the latter did all they could to keep up each other's hearts. they spent much of their spare time in the beautiful and romantic tower-room, and in walking about the woods, the grounds, and farm; for rupert was well now, and was his father's right hand, not in the rough-and-tumble dashing way that archie would have been, but in a thoughtful, considering way. mr walton had gone away, but branson and old kate were still to the fore. the squire could not have spared these. i think that rupert's religion was a very pretty thing. he had lost none of his simple faith, his abiding trust in god's goodness, though he had regained his health. his devotions were quite as sincere, his thankfulness for mercies received greater even than before, and he had the most unbounded faith in the efficacy of prayer. so his sister and he lived in hope, and the squire used to build castles in the green parlour of an evening, and of course the absent archie was one of the kings of these castles. after a certain number of years of retrenchment, burley was going to rise from its ashes like the fabled phoenix--machinery and all. the squire was even yet determined to show these old-fashioned farmer folks of northumbria "a thing or two." that was his ambition; and we must not blame him; for a man without ambition of some kind is a very humble sort of a clod--a clod of very poor clay. but to return to sydney. archie had received several rough invitations to go and visit mr winslow. he had accepted two of these, and, singular to say, etheldene's father was absent each time. now, i refuse to be misunderstood. archie did not "manage" to call when the ex-miner was out; but archie was not displeased. he had taken a very great fancy for the child, and did not hesitate to tell her that from the first day he had met her he had loved her like his sister elsie. of course etheldene wanted to know all about elsie, and hours were spent in telling her about this one darling sister of his, and about rupert and all the grand old life at burley. "i should laugh," cried archie, "if some day when you grew up, you should find yourself in england, and fall in love with rupert, and marry him." the child smiled, but looked wonderfully sad and beautiful the next moment. she had a way like this with her. for if etheldene had been taken to represent any month of our english year, it would have been april--sunshine, flowers, and showers. but one evening archie happened to be later out in the suburbs than he ought to have been. the day had been hot, and the night was delightfully cool and pleasant. he was returning home when a tall, rough-looking, bearded man stopped him, and asked "for a light, old chum." archie had a match, which he handed him, and as the light fell on the man's face, it revealed a very handsome one indeed, and one that somehow seemed not unfamiliar to him. archie went on. there was the noise of singing farther down the street, a merry band of youths who had been to a race meeting that clay, and were up to mischief. the tall man hid under the shadow of a wall. "they're larrikins," he said to himself, and "he's a greenhorn." he spat in his fist, and kept his eye on the advancing figures. archie met them. they were arm-in-arm, five in all, and instead of making way for him, rushed him, and down he went, his head catching the kerb with frightful force. they at once proceeded to rifle him. but perhaps "larrikins" had never gone to ground so quickly and so unexpectedly before. it was the bearded man who was "having his fling" among them, and he ended by grabbing one in each hand till a policeman came up. archie remembered nothing more then. when he became sensible he was in bed with a bandaged head, and feeling as weak all over as a kitten. sarah was in the room with the landlady. "hush, my dear," said the latter; "you've been very ill for more than a week. you're not to get up, nor even to speak." archie certainly did not feel inclined to do either. he just closed his eyes and dozed off again, and his soul flew right away back to burley. "oh, yes; he's out of danger!" it was the doctor's voice. "he'll do first-rate with careful nursing." "he won't want for that, sir. sarah here has been like a little mother to him." archie dozed for days. only, whenever he was sensible, he could notice that sarah was far better dressed, and far older-looking and nicer-looking than ever she had been. and now and then the big-bearded man came and sat by his bed, looking sometimes at him, some times at sarah. one day archie was able to sit up; he felt quite well almost, though of course he was not really so. "i have you to thank for helping me that night," he said. "ay, ay, master archie; but don't you know me?" "no--no. i don't think so." the big-bearded man took out a little case from his pocket, and pulled therefrom a pair of horn-bound spectacles. "why!" cried archie, "you're not--" "i _am_, really." "oh, bob cooper, i'm pleased to see you! tell me all your story." "not yet, chummie; it is too long, or rather you're too weak. why, you're crying!" "it's tears of joy!" "well, well; i would join you, lad, but tears ain't in my line. but somebody else will want to see you to-morrow." "who?" "just wait and see." archie did wait. indeed he had to; for the doctor left express orders that he was not to be disturbed. the evening sun was streaming over the hills when sarah entered next day and gave a look towards the bed. "i'm awake, sarah." "it's bob," said sarah, "and t'other little gent. they be both a-comin' upstairs athout their boots." archie was just wondering what right sarah had to call bob cooper by his christian name, when bob himself came quietly in. "ah!" he said, as he approached the bed, "you're beginning to look your old self already. now who is this, think you?" archie extended a feeble white hand. "why, whitechapel!" he exclaimed joyfully. "wonders will never cease!" "well, johnnie, and how are ye? i told ye, ye know, that 'the king, might come in the cadger's way.'" "not much king about me now, harry; but sit down. why i've come through such a lot since i saw you, that i begin to feel quite aged. well, it is just like old times seeing you. but you're not a bit altered. no beard, or moustache, or anything, and just as cheeky-looking as when you gave me that thrashing in the wood at burley. but you don't talk so cockneyfied." "no, johnnie; ye see i've roughed it a bit, and learned better english in the bush and scrub. but i say, johnnie, i wouldn't mind being back for a day or two at burley. i think i could ride your buck-jumping 'eider duck' now. ah, i won't forget that first ride, though; i've got to rub myself yet whenever i think of it." "but how on earth did you get here at all, the pair of you?" "well," said harry, "that ain't my story 'alf so much as it is bob's. i reckon he better tell it." "oh, but i haven't the gift of the gab like you, harry! i'm a slow coach. i am a duffer at a story." "stop telling both," cried archie. "i don't want any story about the matter. just a little conversational yarn; you can help each other out, and what i don't understand, why i'll ask, that's all." "but wait a bit," he continued. "touch that bell, harry. pull hard; it doesn't ring else. my diggins are not much account. here comes sarah, singing. bless her old soul! i'd been dead many a day if it hadn't been for sarah." "look here, sarah." "i'm looking nowheres else, mister broadbent; but mind you this, if there's too much talking, i'm to show both these gents downstairs. them's the doctor's orders, and they've got to be obeyed. now, what's your will, sir?" "tea, sarah." "that's right. one or two words at a time and all goes easy. tea you shall have in the twinkling of a bedpost. tea and etceteras." sarah was as good as her word. in ten minutes she had laid a little table and spread it with good things; a big teapot, cups and saucers, and a steaming urn. then off she went singing again. archie wondered what made her so happy, and meant to ask her when his guests were gone. "now, young squire," said harry, "i'll be the lady; and if your tea isn't to your taste, why just holler." "but don't call me squire, harry; i left that title at home. we're all equal here. no kings and no cadgers." "well, bob, when last i saw you in old england, there was a sorrowful face above your shoulders, and i'll never forget the way you turned round and asked me to look after your mother's cat." "ah, poor mother! i wish i'd been better to her when i had her. however, i reckon we'll meet some day up-bye yonder." "yes, bob, and you jumped the fence and disappeared in the wood! where did you go?" chapter fifteen. bob's story: wild life at the diggings. "well, it all came about like this, archie: 'england,' i said to myself, says i, 'ain't no place for a poor man.' your gentry people, most o' them anyhow, are just like dogs in the manger. the dog couldn't eat the straw, but he wouldn't let the poor hungry cow have a bite. your landed proprietors are just the same; they got their land as the dog got his manger. they took it, and though they can't live on it all, they won't let anybody else do it." "you're rather hard on the gentry, bob." "well, maybe, archie; but they ain't many o' them like squire broadbent. never mind, there didn't seem to be room for me in england, and i couldn't help noticing that all the best people, and the freest, and kindest, were men like your uncle ramsay, who had been away abroad, and had gotten all their dirty little meannesses squeezed out of them. so when i left you, after cutting that bit o' stick, i made tracks for london. i hadn't much money, so i tramped all the way to york, and then took train. when i got to london, why i felt worse off than ever. not a soul to speak to; not a face i knew; even the bobbies looking sour when i asked them a civil question; and starvation staring me in the face." "starvation, bob?" "ay, archie, and money in my pocket. plenty o' shilling dinners; but, lo! what was _one_ london shilling dinner to the like o' me? why, i could have bolted three! then i thought of harry here, and made tracks for whitechapel. i found the youngster--i'd known him at burley--and he was glad to see me again. his granny was dead, or somebody; anyhow, he was all alone in the world. but he made me welcome--downright happy and welcome. i'll tell you what it is, archie lad, harry is a little gentleman, cockney here or cockney there; and deep down below that white, thin face o' his, which three years and over of australian sunshine hasn't made much browner, harry carries a heart, look, see! that wouldn't disgrace an english squire." "bravo, bob! i like to hear you speak in that way about our friend." "well, that night i said to harry, 'isn't it hard, harry.' i says, 'that in this free and enlightened land a man is put into gaol if he snares a rabbit?' "'free and enlightened fiddlestick!' that was harry's words. 'i tell ye what it is, bob,' says he, 'this country is played out. but i knows where there are lots o' rabbits for the catching.' "'where's that?' i says. "'australia o!' says harry. "'harry,' says i, 'let us pool up, and set sail for the land of rabbits--for australia o!' "'right you are,' says harry; and we pooled up on the spot; and from that day we haven't had more'n one purse between the two of us, have we, harry?" "only one," said harry; "and one's enough between such old, old chums." "he may well say old, _old_ chums, archie; he may well put the two olds to it; for it isn't so much the time we've been together, it's what we've come through together; and shoulder to shoulder has always been our motto. we've shared our bed, we've shared our blanket, our damper and our water also, when there wasn't much between the two of us. "we got helped out by the emigration folks, and we've paid them since, and a bit of interest thrown in for luck like; but when we stood together in port jackson for the first time, the contents of our purse wouldn't have kept us living long, i can assure you. "'cities aren't for the like of us, harry,' says i. "'not now,' says harry. "so we joined a gang going west. there was a rush away to some place where somebody had found gold, and harry and i thought we might do as well as any o' them. "ay, archie, that was a rush. 'tinklers, tailors, sodjers, sailors.' i declare we thought ourselves the best o' the whole gang, and i think so still. "we were lucky enough to meet an old digger, and he told us just exactly what to take and what to leave. one thing we _did_ take was steamboat and train, as far as they would go, and this helped us to leave the mob a bit in the rear. "well, we got high up country at long last--" "hold!" cried harry. "he's missing the best of it. is that fair, johnnie?" "no, it isn't fair." "why, johnnie, we hadn't got fifty miles beyond civilisation when, what with the heat and the rough food and bad water, johnnie, my london legs and my london heart failed me, and down i must lie. we were near a bit of a cockatoo farmer's shanty." "does it pay to breed cockatoos?" said archie innocently. "don't be the death o' me, johnnie. a cockatoo farmer is just a crofter. well, in there bob helped me, and i could go no farther. how long was i ill, bob?" "the best part o' two mouths, harry." "ay, johnnie, and all that time bob there helped the farmer--dug for him, trenched and fenced, and all for my sake, and to keep the life in my cockney skin." "well, harry," said bob, "you proved your worth after we got up. you hardened down fine after that fever." harry turned towards archie. "you mustn't believe all bob says, johnnie, when he speaks about me. bob is a good-natured, silly sort of a chap; and though he has a beard now, he ain't got more 'n 'alf the lime-juice squeezed out of him yet." "never mind, bob," said archie, "even limes and lemons should not be squeezed dry. you and i are country lads, and we would rather retain a shade of greenness than otherwise; but go on, bob." "well, now," continued bob, "i don't know that harry's fever didn't do us both good in the long run; for when we started at last for the interior, we met a good lot of the rush coming back. there was no fear of losing the tracks. that was one good thing that came o' harry's fever. another was, that it kind o' tightened his constitution. la! he could come through anything after that--get wet to the skin and dry again; lie out under a tree or under the dews o' heaven, and never complain of stiffness; and eat corn beef and damper as much as you'd like to put before him; and he never seemed to tire. as for me, you know, archie, i'm an old bush bird. i was brought up in the woods and wilds; and, faith, i'm never so much at home as i am in the forests. not but what we found the march inland wearisome enough. worst of it was, we had no horses, and we had to do a lot of what you might call good honest begging; but if the squatters did give us food going up, we were willing to work for it." "if they'd let us, bob." "which they didn't. hospitality and religion go hand in hand with the squatter. when i and harry here set out on that terribly long march, i confess to both of ye now i didn't feel at all certain as to how anything at all would turn out. i was just as bad as the young bear when its mother put it down and told it to walk. the bear said, 'all right, mother; but how is it done?' and as the mother only answered by a grunt, the young bear had to do the best it could; and so did we. "'how is it going to end?' i often said to harry. "'we can't lose anything, bob,' harry would say, laughing, 'except our lives, and they ain't worth much to anybody but ourselves; so i'm thinkin' we're safe.'" here bob paused a moment to stir his tea, and look thoughtfully into the cup, as if there might be some kind of inspiration to be had from that. he laughed lightly as he proceeded: "i'm a bad hand at a yarn; better wi' the gun and the 'girn,' harry. but i'm laughing now because i remember what droll notions i had about what the bush, as they call it, would be like when we got there." "but, johnnie," harry put in, "the curious thing is, that we never did get there, according to the settlers." "no?" "no; because they would always say to us, 'you're going bush way, aren't ye, boys?' and we would answer, 'why, ain't we there now?' and they would laugh." "that's true," said bob. "the country never seemed to be bush enough for anybody. soon's they settled down in a place the bush'd be farther west." "then the bush, when one is going west," said archie, "must be like to-morrow, always one day ahead." "that's it; and always keeping one day ahead. but it was bush enough for us almost anywhere. and though i feel ashamed like to own it now, there was more than once that i wished i hadn't gone there at all. but i had taken the jump, you see, and there was no going back. well, i used to think at first that the heat would kill us, but it didn't. then i made sure the want of water would. that didn't either, because, one way or another, we always came across some. but i'll tell you what nearly killed us, and that was the lonesomeness of those forests. talk of trees! la! archie, you'd think of jack and the beanstalk if you saw some we saw. and why didn't the birds sing sometimes? but no, only the constant bicker, bicker of something in the grass. there were sounds though that did alarm us. we know now that they were made by birds and harmless beasts, but we were all in the dark then. "often and often, when we were just dropping, and thought it would be a comfort to lie down and die, we would come out of a forest all at once, and feel in a kind of heaven because we saw smoke, or maybe heard the bleating o' sheep. heaven? indeed, archie, it seemed to be; for we had many a kindly welcome from the roughest-looking chaps you could possibly imagine. and the luxury of bathing our poor feet, with the certainty of a pair of dry, clean socks in the mornin', made us as happy as a couple of kings. a lump of salt junk, a dab of damper, and a bed in a corner made us feel so jolly we could hardly go to sleep for laughing. "but the poor beggars we met, how they did carry on to be sure about their bad luck, and about being sold, and this, that, and t'other. ay, and they didn't all go back. we saw dead bodies under trees that nobody had stopped to bury; and it was sad enough to notice that a good many of these were women, and such pinched and ragged corpses! it isn't nice to think back about it. "had anybody found gold in this rush? yes, a few got good working claims, but most of the others stopped till they couldn't stop any longer, and had to get away east again, crawling, and cursing their fate and folly. "but i'll tell you, archie, what ruined most o' them. just drink. it is funny that drink will find its way farther into the bush at times than bread will. "well, coming in at the tail o' the day, like, as harry and i did, we could spot how matters stood at a glance, and we determined to keep clear of bush hotels. ah! they call them all hotels. well, i'm a rough un, archie, but the scenes i've witnessed in some of those drinking houffs has turned my stomach. maudlin, drunken miners, singing, and blethering, and boasting; fighting and rioting worse than poachers, archie, and among them--heaven help us!--poor women folks that would melt your heart to look on. "'can we settle down here a bit?' i said to harry, when we got to the diggings. "'we'll try our little best, old chum,' was harry's reply. "and we did try. it was hard even to live at first. the food, such as it was in the new stores, was at famine price, and there was not much to be got from the rivers and woods. but after a few months things mended; our station grew into a kind o' working town. we had even a graveyard, and all the worst of us got weeded out, and found a place there. "harry and i got a claim after no end of prospecting that we weren't up to. we bought our claim, and bought it cheap; and the chap we got it from died in a week. drink? ay, archie, drink. i'll never forget, and harry i don't think will, the last time we saw him. we had left him in a neighbour's hut down the gully dying to all appearance, too weak hardly to speak. we bade him 'good-bye' for the last time as we thought, and were just sitting and talking like in our slab hut before turning in, and late it must have been, when the door opened, and in came glutz, that was his name. la! what a sight! his face looked like the face of a skeleton with some parchment drawn tight over it, his hollow eyes glittered like wildfire, his lips were dry and drawn, his voice husky. "he pointed at us with his shining fingers, and uttered a low cry like some beast in pain; then, in a horrid whisper, he got out these words: "'give me drink, drink, i'm burning.' "i've seen many a sight, but never such a one as that, archie. we carried him back. yes, we did let him have a mouthful. what mattered it. next day he was in a shallow grave. i suppose the dingoes had him. they had most of those that died. "well, by-and-by things got better with harry and me; our claim began to yield, we got dust and nuggets. we said nothing to anybody. we built a better sort of shanty, and laid out a morsel of garden, we fished and hunted, and soon learned to live better than we'd done before, and as we were making a bit of money we were as happy as sandboys. "no, we didn't keep away from the hotel--they soon got one up--it wouldn't have done not to be free and easy. but we knew exactly what to do when we did go there. we could spin our bits o' yarns, and smoke our pipes, without losing our heads. sometimes shindies got up though, and revolvers were used freely enough, but as a rule it was pretty quiet." "only once, when that little fellow told you to 'bail up.'" "what was that, harry?" asked archie. "nothing much," said bob shyly. "he caught him short round the waist, johnnie, and smashed everything on the counter with him, then flung him straight and clear through the doorway. when he had finished he quietly asked what was to pay, and bob was a favourite after that. i reckon no one ever thought of challenging him again." "where did you keep your gold?" "we hid it in the earth in the tent. there was a black fellow came to look after us every day. we kept him well in his place, for we never could trust him; and it was a good thing we did, as i'm going to tell you. "we had been, maybe, a year and a half in the gully, and had got together a gay bit o' swag, when our claim gave out all at once as 'twere--some shift o' the ground or lode. had we had machinery we might have made a round fortune, but there was no use crying about it. we quietly determined to make tracks. we had sent some away to brisbane already--that we knew was safe, but we had a good bit more to take about us. however, we wouldn't have to walk all the way back, for though the place was half-deserted, there were horses to be had, and farther along we'd manage to get drags. "two of the worst hats about the place were a man called vance, and a kind of broken-down surgeon of the name of williams. they lived by their wits, and the wonder is they hadn't been hanged long ago. "it was about three nights before we started, and we were coming home up the gully. the moon was shining as bright as ever i'd seen it. the dew was falling too, and we weren't sorry when we got inside. our tame dingo came to meet us. he had been a pup that we found in the bush and brought up by hand, and a more faithful fellow never lived. we lit our fat-lamp and sat down to talk, and a good hour, or maybe more, went by. then we lay down, for there was lots to be done in the morning. "there was a little hole in the hut at one end where wango, as we called the wild dog, could crawl through; and just as we were dozing off i heard a slight noise, and opened my eyes enough to see poor wango creeping out. we felt sure he wouldn't go far, and would rush in and alarm us if there were the slightest danger. so in a minute more i was sleeping as soundly as only a miner can sleep, archie. how long i may have slept, or how late or early it was, i couldn't say, but i awoke all at once with a start. there was a man in the hut. next minute a shot was fired. i fell back, and don't remember any more. harry there will tell you the rest." "it was the shot that wakened me, archie, but i felt stupid. i groped round for my revolver, and couldn't find it. then, johnnie, i just let them have it tom sayers's fashion--like i did you in the wood, if you remember." "there were two of them?" "ay, vance and the doctor. i could see their faces by the light of their firing. they didn't aim well the first time, johnnie, so i settled them. i threw the doctor over my head. his nut must have come against something hard, because it stilled him. i got the door opened and had my other man out. ha! ha! it strikes me, johnnie, that i must have wanted some exercise, for i never punished a bloke before as i punished that vance. he had no more strength in him than a bandicoot by the time i was quite done with him, and looked as limp all over and just as lively as 'alf a pound of london tripe. "i just went to the bluff-top after that, and coo-eed for help, and three or four right good friends were with us in as many minutes, johnnie. "we thought bob was dead, but he soon spoke up and told us he wasn't, and didn't mean to die. "our chums would have lynched the ruffians that night. the black fellow was foremost among those that wanted to. but i didn't like that, no more did bob. they were put in a tent, tied hand and foot, and our black fellow made sentry over them. next day they were all gone. then we knew it was a put-up job. poor old wango was found with his throat cut. the black fellow had enticed him out and taken him off, then the others had gone for us." "but our swag was safe," said bob, "though i lay ill for months after. and now it was harry's turn to nurse; and i can tell you, archie, that my dear, old dead-and-gone mother couldn't have been kinder to me than he was. a whole party of us took the road back east, and many is the pleasant evening we spent around our camp fire. "we got safe to brisbane, and we got safe here; but somehow we're a kind o' sick of mining." "ever hear more of your assailants?" asked archie. "what, the chaps who tried to bail us up? yes. we did hear they'd taken to bush-ranging, and are likely to come to grief at that." "well, bob cooper, i think you've told your story pretty tidily, with harry's assistance; and i don't wonder now that you've only got one purse between you." "ah!" said bob, "it would take weeks to tell you one half of our adventures. we may tell you some more when we're all together in the bush doing a bit of farming." "all together?" "to be sure! d'ye reckon we'll leave you here, now we've found you? we'll have one purse between three." "indeed, bob, we will not. if i go to the bush--and now i've half a mind to--i'll work like a new hollander." "bravo! you're a chip o' the old block. well, we can arrange that. we'll hire you. will that do, my proud young son of a proud old sire?" "yes; you can hire me." "well, we'll pay so much for your hands, and so much for your head and brains." archie laughed. "and," continued bob, "i'm sure that sarah will do the very best for the three of us." "sarah! why, what do you mean, bob?" "only this, lad: sarah has promised to become my little wife." the girl had just entered. "haven't you, sarah?" "hain't i what?" "promised to marry me." "well, mister archie broadbent, now i comes to think on't, i believes i 'ave. you know, mister, you wouldn't never 'ave married me." "no, sarah." "well, and i'm perfectly sick o' toilin' up and down these stairs. that's 'ow it is, sir." "well, sarah," said archie, "bring us some more nice tea, and i'll forgive you for this once, but you mustn't do it any more." it was late ere bob and harry went away. archie lay back at once, and when, a few minutes after, the ex-policeman's wife came in to see how he was, she found him sound and fast. archie was back again at burley old farm, that is why he smiled in his dreams. "so i'm going to be a hired man in the bush," he said to himself next morning. "that's a turn in the kaleidoscope of fortune." however, as the reader will see, it did not quite come to this with archie broadbent. chapter sixteen. a miner's marriage. it was the cool season in sydney. in other words, it was winter just commencing; so, what with balmy air and beauty everywhere around, no wonder archie soon got well. he had the kindest treatment too, and he had youth and hope. he could now write home to his parents and elsie a long, cheerful letter without any twinge of conscience. he was going to begin work soon in downright earnest, and get straight away from city life, and all its allurements; he wondered, he said, it had not occurred to him to do this before, only it was not too late to mend even yet. he hated city life now quite as much as he had previously loved it, and been enamoured of it. it never rains but it pours, and on the very day after he posted his packet to burley he received a registered letter from his uncle. it contained a bill of exchange for fifty pounds. archie blushed scarlet when he saw it. now had this letter and its contents been from his father, knowing all he did of the straits at home, he would have sent the money back. but his uncle evidently knew whom he had to deal with; for he assured archie in his letter that it was a loan, not a gift. he might want it he said, and he really would be obliging him by accepting it. he--uncle ramsay-- knew what the world was, and so on and so forth, and the letter ended by requesting archie to say nothing about it to his parents at present. "dear old boy," said archie half aloud, and tears of gratitude sprang to his eyes. "how thoughtful and kind! well, it'll be a loan, and i'll pray every night that god may spare him till i get home to shake his honest brown paw, and thrust the fifty pounds back into it. no, it would be really unkind to refuse it." he went straight away--walking on feathers--to bob's hotel. he found him and harry sitting out on the balcony drinking sherbet. he took a seat beside them. "i'm in clover, boys," he cried exultingly, as he handed the cash to bob to look at. "so you are," said bob, reading the figures. "well, this is what my old mother would call a godsend. i always said your uncle ramsay was as good as they make 'em." "it looks a lot of money to me at present," said archie. "i'll have all that to begin life with; for i have still a few pounds left to pay my landlady, and to buy a blanket or two." "well, as to what you'll buy, archie," said bob cooper, "if you don't mind leaving that to us, we will manage all, cheaper and better than you could; for we're old on the job." "oh! i will with pleasure, only--" "i know all about that. you'll settle up. well, we're all going to be settlers. eh? see the joke?" "bob doesn't often say funny things," said harry; "so it must be a fine thing to be going to get married." "ay, lad, and i'm going to do it properly. worst of it is, archie, i don't know anybody to invite. oh, we must have a dinner! bother breakfasts, and hang honeymoons. no, no; a run round sydney will suit sarah better than a year o' honeymooning nonsense. then we'll all go off in the boat to brisbane. that'll be a honeymoon and a half in itself. hurrah! won't we all be so happy! i feel sure sarah's a jewel." "how long did you know her, bob, before you asked her the momentous question?" "asked her _what_!" "to marry you." "oh, only a week! la! that's long enough. i could see she was true blue, and as soft as rain. bless her heart! i say, archie, who'll we ask?" "well, i know a few good fellows--" "right. let us have them. what's their names?" out came bob's notebook, and down went a dozen names. "that'll be ample," said archie. "well," bob acquiesced with a sigh, "i suppose it must. now we're going to be spliced by special licence, sarah and i. none of your doing things by half. and harry there is going to order the cabs and carriages, and favours and music, and the parson, and everything firstchop." the idea of "ordering the parson" struck archie as somewhat incongruous; but bob had his own way of saying things, and it was evident he would have his own way in doing things too for once. "and," continued bob, "the ex-policeman's wife and i are going to buy the bonnie things to-morrow. and as for the 'bobby' himself, we'll have to send him away for the day. he is too fond of one thing, and would spoil the splore." next day sure enough bob did start off with the "bobby's" wife to buy the bonnie things. a tall, handsome fellow bob looked too; and the tailor having done his best, he was altogether a dandy. he would persist in giving his mother, as he called her, his arm on the street, and the appearance of the pair of them caused a good many people to look after them and smile. however, the "bonnie things" were bought, and it was well he had someone to look after him, else he would have spent money uselessly as well as freely. only, as bob said, "it was but one day in his life, why shouldn't he make the best of it?" he insisted on making his mother a present of a nice little gold watch. no, he _wouldn't_ let her have a silver one, and it _should_ be "set with blue-stones." he would have that one, and no other. "too expensive? no, indeed!" he cried. "make out the bill, master, and i'll knock down my cheque. hurrah! one doesn't get married every morning, and it isn't everybody who gets a girl like sarah when he does get spliced! so there!" archie had told bob and harry of his first dinner at the hotel, and how kind and considerate in every way the waiter had been, and how he had often gone back there to have a talk. "it is there then, and nowhere else," said bob, "we'll have our wedding dinner." archie would not gainsay this; and nothing would satisfy the lucky miner but chartering a whole flat for a week. "that's the way we'll do it," he said; "and now look here, as long as the week lasts, any of your friends can drop into breakfast, dinner, or supper. we are going to do the thing proper, if we sell our best jackets to help to pay the bill. what say, old chummie?" "certainly," said harry; "and if ever i'm fool enough to get married, i'll do the same kind o' thing." a happy thought occurred to archie the day before the marriage. "how much loose cash have you, bob?" "i dunno," said bob, diving his hands into both his capacious pockets-- each were big enough to hold a rabbit--and making a wonderful rattling. "i reckon i've enough for to-morrow. it seems deep enough." "well, my friend, hand over." "what!" cried bob, "you want me to bail up?" "bail up!" "you're a downright bushranger, archie. however, i suppose i must obey." then he emptied his pockets into a pile on the table--gold, silver, copper, all in the same heap. archie counted and made a note of all, put part away in a box, locked it, gave bob back a few coins, mostly silver, and stowed the rest in his purse. "now," said archie, "be a good old boy, bob; and if you want any more money, just ask nicely, and perhaps you'll have it." there was a rattling thunder-storm that night, which died away at last far beyond the hills, and next morning broke bright, and cool, and clear. a more lovely marriage morning surely never yet was seen. and in due time the carriages rolled up to the church door, horses and men bedecked in favours, and right merry was the peal that rang forth from saint james's. sarah did not make by any means an uninteresting bride. she had not over-dressed, so that showed she possessed good taste. as for the stalwart northumbrian, big-bearded bob, he really was splendid. he was all a man, i can assure you, and bore himself as such in spite of the fact that his black broadcloth coat was rather wrinkly in places, and that his white kid gloves had burst at the sides. there was a glorious glitter of love and pride in his dark blue eyes as he towered beside sarah at the altar, and he made the responses in tones that rang through all the church. after the ceremony and vestry business bob gave a sigh of relief, and squeezed sarah's hand till she blushed. the carriage was waiting, and a pretty bit of a mob too. and before bob jumped in he said, "now, harry, for the bag." as he spoke he gave a look of triumph towards archie, as much as to say, "see how i have sold you." harry handed him a bag of silver coins. "stand by, you boys, for a scramble," shouted bob in a voice that almost brought down the church. "coo-ee!" and out flew handful after handful, here, there, and everywhere, till the sack was empty. when the carriages got clear away at last, there was a ringing cheer went up from the crowd that really did everybody's heart good to hear. of course the bridegroom stood up and waved his hat back, and when at last he subsided: "och!" he sighed, "that is the correct way to get married. i've got all their good wishes, and they're worth their weight in gold, let alone silver." the carriages all headed away for the heights of north shore, and on to the top of the bay, from whence such a glorious panorama was spread out before them as one seldom witnesses. the city itself was a sight; but there were the hills, and rocks, and woods, and the grand coast line, and last, though not least, the blue sea itself. the breakfast was _al fresco_. it really was a luncheon, and it would have done credit to the wedding of a highland laird or lord, let alone a miner and _quondam_ poacher. but australia is a queer place. bob's money at all events had been honestly come by, and everybody hailed him king of the day. he knew he was king, and simply did as he pleased. here is one example of his abounding liberality. before starting back for town that day he turned to archie, as a prince might turn: "archie, chummie," he said. "you see those boys?" "yes." "well, they all look cheeky." "very much so, bob." "and i dearly love a cheeky boy. scatter a handful of coins among them, and see that there be one or two yellow ones in the lot." "what nonsense!" cried archie; "what extravagant folly, bob!" "all right," said bob quietly. "i've no money, but--" he pulled out his splendid gold hunter. "what are you going to do?" "why, let them scramble for the watch." "no, no, bob; i'll throw the coins." "you have to," said bob, sitting down, laughing. the dinner, and the dance afterwards, were completely successful. there was no over-crowding, and no stuck-up-ness, as bob called it. everybody did what he pleased, and all were as happy and jolly as the night was long. bob did not go away on any particular honeymoon. he told sarah they would have their honeymoon out when they went to the bush. meanwhile, day after day, for a week, the miner bridegroom kept open house for archie's friends; and every morning some delightful trip was arranged, which, faithfully carried out, brought everyone hungry and happy back to dinner. there is more beauty of scenery to be seen around sydney in winter than would take volumes to describe by pen, and acres of canvas to depict; and, after all, both author and artist would have to admit that they had not done justice to their subject. now that he had really found friends--humble though they might be considered in england--life to archie, which before his accident was very grey and hopeless, became bright and clear again. he had a present, and he believed he had a future. he saw new beauties everywhere around him, even in the city; and the people themselves, who in his lonely days seemed to him so grasping, grim, and heartless, began to look pleasant in his eyes. this only proves that we have happiness within our reach if we only let it come to us, and it never will while we sit and sulk, or walk around and growl. bob, with his young wife and archie and harry, made many a pilgrimage all round the city, and up and through the sternly rugged and grand scenery among the blue mountains. nor was it all wild and stern, for valleys were visited, whose beauty far excelled anything else archie had ever seen on earth, or could have dreamt of even. sky, wood, hill, water, and wild flowers all combined to form scenes of loveliness that were entrancing at this sweet season of the year. twenty times a day at least archie was heard saying to himself, "oh, how i wish sister and rupert were here!" then there were delightful afternoons spent in rowing about the bay. i really think bob was taking the proper way to enjoy himself after all. he had made up his mind to spend a certain sum of money on seeing all that was worth seeing, and he set himself to do so in a thoroughly business way. well, if a person has got to do nothing, the best plan is to do it pleasantly. so he would hire one of the biggest, broadest-beamed boats he could find, with two men to row. they would land here and there in the course of the afternoon, and towards sunset get well out into the centre of the bay. this was the time for enjoyment. the lovely chain of houses, the woods, and mansions half hid in a cloudland of soft greens and hazy blues; the far-off hills, the red setting sun, the painted sky, and the water itself casting reflections of all above. then slowly homewards, the chains of lights springing up here, there, and everywhere as the gloaming began to deepen into night. if seeing and enjoying such scenes as these with a contented mind, a good appetite, and the certainty of an excellent dinner on their return, did not constitute genuine happiness, then i do not know from personal experience what that feeling is. but the time flew by. preparations had to be made to leave this fascinating city, and one day archie proposed that bob and he should visit winslow in his suburban villa. chapter seventeen. mr winslow in a different light. "you'll find him a rough stick," said archie. "what, rougher than me or harry?" said bob. "well, as you've put the question i'll answer you pat. i don't consider either you or harry particularly rough. if you're rough you're right, bob, and it is really wonderful what a difference mixing with the world has done for both of you; and if you knew a little more of the rudiments of english grammar, you would pass at a pinch." "thank ye," said bob. "you've got a bit of the bur-r-r of northumbria in your brogue, but i do believe people like it, and harry isn't half the cockney he used to be. but, bob, this man--i wish i could say gentleman--winslow never was, and never could be, anything but a shell-back. he puts me in mind of the warty old lobsters one sees crawling in and out among the rocks away down at the point yonder. "but, oh!" added archie, "what a little angel the daughter is! of course she is only a baby. and what a lovely name--etheldene! isn't it sweet, bob?" "i don't know about the sweetness; there is a good mouthful of it, anyhow." "off you go, bob, and dress. have you darned those holes in your gloves?" "no; bought a new pair." "just like your extravagance. be off!" bob cooper took extra pains with his dressing to-day, and when he appeared at last before his little wife sarah, she turned him round and round and round three times, partly for luck, and partly to look at him with genuine pride up and down. "my eye," she said at last, "you does look stunning! not a pin in sight, nor a string sticking out anywheres. you're going to see a young lady, i suppose; but sarah ain't jealous of her little man. she likes to see him admired." "yes," said bob, laughing; "you've hit the nail straight on the head; i am going to see a young lady. she is fourteen year old, i think. but bless your little bobbing bit o' a heart, lass, it isn't for her i'm dressed. no; i'm going with t' young squire. he may be all the same as us out here, and lets me call him archie. but what are they out here, after all? why, only a set o' whitewashed heathens. no, i must dress for the company i'm in." "and the very young lady--?" "is a miss winslow. i think t' young squire is kind o' gone on her, though she _is_ only a baby. well, good-bye, lass." "good-bye, little man." etheldene ran with smiles and outstretched arms to meet archie, but drew back when she noticed the immense bearded stranger. "it's only bob," said archie. "is your father in?" "yes, and we're all going to have tea out here under the trees." the "all" was not a very large number; only etheldene's governess and father, herself, and a girl playmate. poor etheldene's mother had died in the bush when she was little more than a baby. the rough life had hardly suited her. and this child had been such a little bushranger from her earliest days that her present appearance, her extreme beauty and gentleness, made another of those wonderful puzzles for which australia is notorious. probably etheldene knew more about the blacks, with their strange customs and manners, their curious rites and superstitions, and more about the home life of wallabies, kangaroos, dingoes, birds, insects, and every thing that grew wild, than many a professed naturalist; but she had her own names, or names given by blacks, to the trees and to the wild flowers. while etheldene, somewhat timidly it must be confessed, was leading big bob round the gardens and lawns by the hand as if he were a kind of exaggerated schoolboy, and showing him all her pets--animate and inanimate--her ferns and flowers and birds, winslow himself came upon the scene with the _morning herald_ in his hand. he was dressed--if dressing it could be called--in the same careless manner archie had last seen him. it must be confessed, however, that this semi-negligent style seemed to suit him. archie wondered if ever he had worn a necktie in his life, and how he would look in a dress suit. he lounged up with careless ease, and stuck out his great spade of a hand. archie remembered he was etheldene's father, and shook it. "well, youngster, how are you? bobbish, eh? ah, i see ethie has got in tow with a new chum. your friend? is he now? well, that's the sort of man i like. he's bound to do well in this country. you ain't a bad sort yourself, lad; but nothing to that, no more than a young turkey is to an emu. well, sit down." mr winslow flung himself on the grass. it might be rather damp, but he dared not trust his weight and bulk on a lawn-chair. "so your friend's going to the bush, and going to take you with him, eh?" archie's proud soul rebelled against this way of talking, but he said nothing. it was evident that mr winslow looked upon him as a boy. "well, i hope you'll do right both of you. what prospects have you?" archie told him how high his hopes were, and how exalted his notions. "them's your sentiments, eh? then my advice is this: pitch 'em all overboard--the whole jing-bang of them. your high-flown notions sink you english greenhorns. now, when i all but offered you a position under me--" "under your gardener," said archie, smiling. "well, it's all the same. i didn't mean to insult your father's son. i wanted to know if you had the grit and the go in you." "i think i've both, sir. father--squire broadbent--" "squire fiddlestick!" "sir!" "go on, lad, never mind me. your father--" "my father brought me up to work." "tossing hay, i suppose, raking flower-beds and such. well, you'll find all this different in australian bush-life; it is sink or swim there." "well, i'm going to swim." "bravo, boy!" "and now, sir, do you mean to tell me that brains go for nothing in this land of contrariety?" "no," cried winslow, "no, lad. goodness forbid i should give you that impression. if i had only the gift of the gab, and were a good writer, i'd send stuff to this paper," (here he struck the sheet that lay on the grass) "that would show men how i felt, and i'd be a member of the legislature in a year's time. but this is what i say, lad, _brains without legs and arms, and a healthy stomach, are no good here_, or very little. we want the two combined; but if either are to be left out, why leave out the brains. there is many an english youth of gentle birth and good education that would make wealth and honour too in this new land of ours, if he could pocket his pride, don a workman's jacket, and put his shoulder to the wheel. that's it, d'ye see?" "i think i do." "that's right. now tell me about your uncle. dear old man! we never had a cross word all the time i sailed with him." archie did tell him all, everything, and even gave him his last letter to read. by-and-by etheldene came back, still leading her exaggerated schoolboy. "sit down, mr cooper, on the grass. that's the style." "well," cried archie, laughing, "if everybody is going to squat on the grass, so shall i." even etheldene laughed at this; and when the governess came, and servants with the tea, they found a very happy family indeed. after due introductions, winslow continued talking to bob. "that's it, you see, mr cooper; and i'm right glad you've come to me for advice. what i don't know about settling in bushland isn't worth knowing, though i say it myself. there are plenty long-headed fellows that have risen to riches very quickly, but i believe, lad, the same men would have made money in their own country. they are the geniuses of finance; fellows with four eyes in their head, and that can look two ways at once. but they are the exception, and the ordinary man needn't expect such luck, because he won't get it. "now there's yourself, mr cooper, and your friend that i haven't seen; you've made a lucky dive at the fields, and you're tired of gold-digging. i don't blame you. you want to turn farmer in earnest. on a small scale you are a capitalist. well, mind, you're going to play a game, in which the very first movement may settle you for good or evil. "go to brisbane. don't believe the chaps here. go straight away up, and take time a bit, and look round. don't buy a pig in a poke. hundreds do. there's a lot of people whose interest is to sell a claims, and a shoal of greenhorns with capital who want to buy. now listen. maybe not one of these have any experience. they see speculation in each other's eyes; and if one makes a grab, the other will try to be before him, and very likely the one that lays hold is hoisted. let me put it in another way. hang a hook, with a nice piece of pork on it, overboard where there are sharks. everyone would like the pork, but everyone is shy and suspicious. suddenly a shark, with more speculation in his eye than the others, prepares for a rush, and rather than he shall have it all the rest do just the same, and the lucky one gets hoisted. it's that way with catching capitalists. so i say again, look before you leap. don't run after bargains. they may be good, but--this young fellow here has some knowledge of english farming. well, that is good in its way, very good; and he has plenty of muscle, and is willing to work, that is better. if he were all alone, i'd tell him to go away to the bush and shear sheep, build fences, and drive cattle for eighteen months, and keep his eyes wide open, and his ears too, and he'd get some insight into business. as it is, you're all going together, and you'll all have a look at things. you'll see what sort of stock the country is suited for--sheep, or cattle, or both; if it is exposed, or wet, or day, or forest, or all together. and you'll find out if it be healthy for men and stock, and not 'sour' for either; and also you'll consider what markets are open to you. for there'd be small use in rearing stock you couldn't sell. see?" "yes," said bob; "i see a lot of difficulties in the way i hadn't thought of." "go warily then, and the difficulties will vanish. i think i'll go with you to brisbane," added winslow, after a pause. "i'm getting sick already of civilised life." etheldene threw her arms round her father's neck. "well, birdie, what is it? 'fraid i go and leave you too long?" "you mustn't leave me at all, father. i'm sometimes sick of civilised life. i'm going with you wherever you go." that same evening after dinner, while etheldene was away somewhere with her new friend--showing him, i think, how to throw the boomerang-- winslow and archie sat out in the verandah looking at the stars while they sipped their coffee. winslow had been silent for a time, suddenly he spoke. "i'm going to ask you a strange question, youngster," he said. "well, sir?" said archie. "suppose i were in a difficulty, from what you have seen of me would you help me out if you could?" "you needn't ask, sir," said archie. "my uncle's friend." "well, a fifty-pound note would do it." archie had his uncle's draft still with him. he never said a word till he had handed it to winslow, and till this eccentric individual had crumpled it up, and thrust it unceremoniously, and with only a grunt of thanks, into one of his capacious pockets. "but," said archie, "i would rather you would not look upon it as a loan. in fact, i am doubting the evidence of my senses. you--with all the show of wealth i see around me--to be in temporary need of a poor, paltry fifty pounds! verily, sir, this is the land of contrarieties." winslow simply laughed. "you have a lot to learn yet," he said, "my young friend; but i admire your courage, and your generous-heartedness, though not your business habits." archie and bob paid many a visit to wistaria grove--the name of winslow's place--during the three weeks previous to the start from sydney. one day, when alone with archie, winslow thrust an envelope into his hands. "that's your fifty pounds," he said. "why, count it, lad; don't stow it away like that. it ain't business." "why," said archie, "here are three hundred pounds, not fifty pounds!" "it's all yours, lad, every penny; and if you don't put it up i'll put it in the fire." "but explain." "yes, nothing more easy. you mustn't be angry. no? well, then, i knew, from all accounts, you were a chip o' the old block, and there was no use offending your silly pride by offering to lend you money to buy a morsel of claim, so i simply borrowed yours and put it out for you." "put it out for me?" "yes, that's it; and the money is honestly increased. bless your innocence! i could double it in a week. it is making the first thousand pounds that is the difficulty in this country of contrarieties, as you call it." when archie told bob the story that evening, bob's answer was: "well, lad, i knew winslow was a good-hearted fellow the very first day i saw him. never you judge a man by his clothes, archie." "first impressions certainly _are_ deceiving," said archie; "and i'm learning something new every day of my life." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "i am going round to melbourne for a week or two, boys," said winslow one day. "which of you will come with me?" "i'll stop here," said bob, "and stick to business. you had better go, archie." "i would like to, if--if i could afford it." "now, just look here, young man, you stick that eternal english pride of yours in your pocket. i ask you to come with me as a guest, and if you refuse i'll throw you overboard. and if, during our journey, i catch you taking your pride, or your purse either, out of your pocket, i'll never speak another word to you as long as i live." "all right," said archie, laughing; "that settles it. is etheldene going too?" "yes, the child is going. she won't stay away from her old dad. she hasn't a mother, poor thing." regarding archie's visit to victoria, we must let him speak himself another time; for the scene of our story must now shift. chapter eighteen. book iii--in the wild interior. "in this new land of ours." there was something in the glorious lonesomeness of bush-life that accorded most completely with archie's notions of true happiness and independence. his life now, and the lives of all the three, would be simply what they chose to make them. to use the figurative language of the new testament, they had "taken hold of the plough," and they certainly had no intention of "looking back." archie felt (this too is figurative) as the mariner may be supposed to feel just leaving his native shore to sail away over the broad, the boundless ocean to far-off lands. his hand is on the tiller; the shore is receding; his eye is aloft, where the sails are bellying out before the wind. there is hardly a sound, save the creaking of the blocks, or rattle of the rudder chains, the joyous ripple of the water, and the screaming of the sea-birds, that seem to sing their farewells. away ahead is the blue horizon and the heaving sea, but he has faith in his good barque, and faith in his own skill and judgment, and for the time being he is a viking; he is "monarch of all he surveys." "monarch of all he surveys?" yes; these words are borrowed from the poem on robinson crusoe, you remember; that stirring story that so appeals to the heart of every genuine boy. there was something of the robinson crusoe element in archie's present mode of living, for he and his friends had to rough it in the same delightfully primitive fashion. they had to know and to practise a little of almost every trade under the sun; and while life to the boy-- he was really little more--was very real and very earnest, it felt all the time like playing at being a man. but how am i to account for the happiness--nay, even joyfulness--that appeared to be infused in the young man's very blood and soul? nay, not appeared to be only, but that actually was--a joyfulness whose effects could at times be actually felt in his very frame and muscle like a proud thrill, that made his steps and tread elastic, and caused him to gaily sing to himself as he went about at his work. may i try to explain this by a little homely experiment, which you yourself may also perform? see, here then i have a small disc of zinc, no larger than a coat button, and i have also a shilling-piece. i place the former on my tongue, and the latter between my lower lip and gum, and lo! the moment i permit the two metallic edges to touch i feel a tingling thrill, and if my eyes be shut i perceive a flash as well. it is electricity passing through the bodily medium--my tongue. the one coin becomes _en rapport_, so to speak, with the other. so in like manner was archie's soul within him _en rapport_ with all the light, the life, the love he saw around him, his body being but the wholesome, healthy, solid medium. _en rapport_ with the light. why, by day this was everywhere--in the sky during its midday blue brightness; in the clouds so gorgeously painted that lay over the hills at early morning, or over the wooded horizon near eventide. _en rapport_ with the light dancing and shimmering in the pool down yonder; playing among the wild flowers that grew everywhere in wanton luxuriance; flickering through the tree-tops, despite the trailing creepers; gleaming through the tender greens of fern fronds in cool places; sporting with the strange fantastic, but brightly-coloured orchids; turning greys to white, and browns to bronze; warming, wooing, beautifying all things--the light, the lovely light. _en rapport_ with the life. ay, there it was. where was it not? in the air, where myriads of insects dance and buzz and sing and poise hawk-like above flowers, as if inhaling their sweetness, or dart hither and thither in their zigzag course, and almost with the speed of lightning; where monster beetles go droning lazily round, as if uncertain where to alight; where moths, like painted fans, hover in the sunshine, or fold their wings and go to sleep on flower-tops. in the forests, where birds, like animated blossoms, living chips of dazzling colours, hop from boughs, climb stems, run along silvery bark on trees, hopping, jumping, tapping, talking, chattering, screaming, with bills that move and throats that heave even when their voices cannot be heard in the feathered babel. life on the ground, where thousands of busy beetles creep, or play hide-and-seek among the stems of tall grass, and where ants innumerable go in search of what they somehow never seem to find. life on the water slowly sailing round, or in and out among the reeds, in the form of bonnie velvet ducks and pretty spangled teal. life in the water, where shoals of fish dart hither and thither, or rest for a moment in shallows to bask in the sun, their bodies all a-quiver with enjoyment. life in the sky itself, high up. behold that splendid flock of wonga-wonga pigeons, with bronzen wings, that seem to shake the sunshine off them in showers of silver and gold, or, lower down, that mob of snowy-breasted cockatoos, going somewhere to do something, no doubt, and making a dreadful din about it, but quite a sight, if only from the glints of lily and rose that appear in the white of their outstretched wings and tails. life everywhere. _en rapport_ with all the love around him. yes, for it is spring here, though the autumn tints are on the trees in groves and woods at burley. deep down in the forest yonder, if you could penetrate without your clothes being torn from your back, you might listen to the soft murmur of the doves that stand by their nests in the green gloom of fig trees; you would linger long to note the love passages taking place among the cosy wee, bright, and bonnie parrakeets; you would observe the hawk flying silently, sullenly, home to his castle in the inaccessible heights of the gum trees, but you would go quickly past the forest dens of lively cockatoos. for everywhere it is spring with birds and beasts. they have dressed in their gayest; they have assumed their fondest notes and cries; they live and breathe and buzz in an atmosphere of happiness and love. well, it was spring with nature, and it was spring in archie's heart. work was a pleasure to him. that last sentence really deserves a line to itself. without the ghost of an intention to moralise, i must be permitted to say, that the youth who finds an undoubted pleasure in working is sure to get on in australia. there is that in the clear, pure, dry air of the back bush which renders inactivity an impossibility to anyone except ne'er-do-wells and born idiots. this is putting it strongly, but it is also putting it truthfully. archie felt he had done with sydney, for a time at all events, when he left. he was not sorry to shake the dust of the city from his half-wellingtons as he embarked on the _canny scotia_, bound for brisbane. if the winslows had not been among the passengers he certainly would have given vent to a sigh or two. all for the sake of sweet little etheldene? yes, for her sake. was she not going to be rupert's wife, and his own second sister? oh, he had it all nicely arranged, all cut and dry, i can assure you! here is a funny thing, but it is also a fact. the very day that the _canny scotia_ was to sail, archie took harry with him, and the two started through the city, and bore up for the shop of mr glorie. they entered. it was like entering a gloomy vault. nothing was altered. there stood the rows on rows of dusty bottles, with their dingy gilt labels; the dusty mahogany drawers; the morsel of railinged desk with its curtain of dirty red; there were the murky windows with their bottles of crusted yellows and reds; and up there the identical spider still working away at his dismal web, still living in hopes apparently of some day being able to catch a fly. the melancholy-looking new apprentice, who had doubtless paid the new premium, a long lantern-jawed lad with great eyes in hollow sockets, and a blue-grey face, stood looking at the pair of them. "where is your master, mr--?" "mr myers, sir. myers is my name." "where is mr glorie, mr myers?" "d'ye wish to see'm, sir?" "don't it seem like it?" cried harry, who for the life of him "could not help putting his oar in." "master's at the back, among--the soap." he droned out the last words in such a lugubrious tone that archie felt sorry for him. just then, thinking perhaps he scented a customer, mr glorie himself entered, all apron from the jaws to the knees. "ah! mr glorie," cried archie. "i really couldn't leave sydney without saying ta-ta, and expressing my sorrow for breaking--" "your indenture, young sir?" "no; i'm glad i broke that. i mean the oil-jar. here is a sovereign towards it, and i hope there's no bad feeling." "oh, no, not in the least, and thank you, sir, kindly!" "well, good-bye. good-bye mr myers. if ever i return from the bush i'll come back and see you." and away they went, and away went archie's feeling of gloom as soon as he got to the sunny side of the street. "i say," said harry, "that's a lively coon behind the counter. looks to me like a love-sick bandicoot, or a consumptive kangaroo. but don't you know there is such a thing as being too honest? now that old death-and-glory chap robbed you, and had it been me, and i'd called again, it would have been to kick him. but you're still the old johnnie." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ now if i were writing all this tale from imagination, instead of sketching the life and struggles of a real live laddie, i should have ascended into the realms of romance, and made a kind of hero of him thus: he should have gone straight away to the bank when he received that pounds from his uncle, and sent it back, and then gone off to the bush with twopence halfpenny in his pocket, engaged himself to a squatter as under-man, and worked his way right up to the pinnacle of fortune. but archie had not done that; and between you and me and the binnacle, not to let it go any further, i think he did an extremely sensible thing in sticking to the money. oh, but plenty of young men who do not have uncles to send them fifty-pound notes to help them over their first failures, do very well without such assistance! so let no intending emigrant be disheartened. again, as to winslow's wild way of borrowing said pounds, and changing it into pounds, that was another "fluke," and a sort of thing that might never happen again in a hundred years. pride did come in again, however, with a jump--with a gay northumbrian bound--when bob and harry seriously proposed that johnnie, as the latter still called him, should put his money in the pool, and share and share alike with them. "no, no, no," said the young squire, "don't rile me; that would be so obviously unfair to _you_, that it would be unfair to _myself_." when asked to explain this seeming paradox, he added: "because it would rob me of my feeling of independence." so the matter ended. but through the long-headed kindness and business tact of winslow, all three succeeded in getting farms that adjoined, though archie's was but a patch compared to the united great farms of his chums, that stretched to a goodly two thousand acres and more, with land beyond to take up as pasture. but then there was stock to buy, and tools, and all kinds of things, to say nothing of men's and boys' wages to be paid, and arms and ammunition to help to fill the larder. at this time the railway did not go sweeping away so far west as it does now, the colony being very much younger, and considerably rougher; and the farms lay on the edge of the darling downs. this was a great advantage, as it gave them the run of the markets without having to pay nearly as much in transit and freight as the stock was worth. they had another advantage in their selection--thanks once more to winslow--they had bush still farther to the west of them. not adjacent, to be sure, but near enough to make a shift of stock to grass lands, that could be had for an old song, as the saying is. the selection was procured under better conditions than i believe it is to be had to-day; for the rent was only about ninepence an acre, and that for twenty years, the whole payable at any time in order to obtain complete possession. [at present agricultural farms may be selected of not more than acres, and the rent is fixed by the land board, not being less than threepence per acre per annum. a licence is issued to the selector, who must, within five years, fence in the land or make permanent improvements of a value equal to the cost of the fence, and must also live on the selection. if at the end of that time he can prove that he has performed the above conditions, he will be entitled to a transferable lease for fifty years. the rent for the first ten years will be the amount as at first fixed, and the rent for every subsequent period of five years will be determined by the land board, but the greatest increase that can be made at any re-assessment is fifty per cent.] it must not be imagined that this new home of theirs was a land flowing with milk and honey, or that they had nothing earthly to do but till the ground, sow seed, and live happy ever after. indeed the work to be performed was all earthly, and the milk and honey had all to come. a deal of the very best land in australia is covered with woods and forests, and clearing has to be done. bob wished his busy little body of a wife to stay behind in brisbane till he had some kind of a decent crib, as he called it, ready to invite her to. but sarah said, "no! where you go i go. your crib shall be my crib, bob, and i shall bake the damper." this was not very poetical language, but there was a good deal of sound sense about sarah, even if there was but little poetry. well, it did seem at first a disheartening kind of wilderness they had come to, but the site for the homesteads had been previously selected, and after a night's rest in their rude tents and waggons, work was commenced. right joyfully too,-- "down with them! down with the lords of the forests." this was the song of our pioneers. men shouted and talked, and laughed and joked, saws rasped and axes rang, and all the while duty went merrily on. birds find beasts, never disturbed before in the solitude of their homes, except by wandering blacks, crowded round--only keeping a safe distance away--and wondered whatever the matter could be. the musical magpies, or laughing jackasses, said they would soon settle the business; they would frighten those new chums out of their wits, and out of the woods. so they started to do it. they laughed in such loud, discordant, daft tones that at times archie was obliged to put his fingers in his ears, and guns had to be fired to stop the row. so they were not successful. the cockatoos tried the same game; they cackled and skraighed like a million mad hens, and rustled and ruffled their plumage, and flapped their wings and flew, but all to no purpose--the work went on. the beautiful lorries, parrakeets, and budgerigars took little notice of the intruders, but went farther away, deserting half-built nests to build new ones. the bonnie little long-tailed opossum peeped down from his perch on the gums, looking exceedingly wise, and told his wife that not in all his experience had there been such goings on in the forest lands, and that something was sure to follow it; his wife might mark his words for that. the wonga-wongas grumbled dreadfully; but great hawks flew high in the air, swooping round and round against the sun, as they have a habit of doing, and now and then gave vent to a shrill cry which was more of exultation than anything else. "there will be dead bones to pick before long." that is what the hawks thought. snakes now and then got angrily up, puffed and blew a bit, but immediately decamped into the denser cover. the dingoes kept their minds to themselves until night fell, and the stars came out; the constellation called the southern cross spangled the heaven's dark blue, then the dingoes lifted up their voices and wept; and, oh, such weeping! whoso has never heard a concert of australian wild dogs can have no conception of the noise these animals are capable of. whoso has once heard it, and gone to sleep towards the end of it, will never afterwards complain of the harmless musical reunions of our london cats. but sleep is often impossible. you have got just to lie in bed and wonder what in the name of mystery they do it for. they seem to quarrel over the key-note, and lose it, and try for it, and get it again, and again go off into a chorus that would "ding doon" tantallan castle. and when you do doze off at last, as likely as not, you will dream of howling winds and hungry wolves till it is grey daylight in the morning. chapter nineteen. burley new farm. there was so much to be done before things could be got "straight" on the new station, that the days and weeks flew by at a wonderful pace. i pity the man or boy who is reduced to the expedient of killing time. why if one is only pleasantly and usefully occupied, or engaged in interesting pursuits, time kills itself, and we wonder where it has gone to. if i were to enter into a minute description of the setting-up of the stock and agricultural farm, chapter after chapter would have to be written, and still i should not have finished. i do not think it would be unprofitable reading either, nor such as one would feel inclined to skip. but as there are a deal of different ways of building and furnishing new places the plan adopted by the three friends might not be considered the best after all. besides, improvements are taking place every day even in bush-life. however, in the free-and-easy life one leads in the bush one soon learns to feel quite independent of the finer arts of the upholsterer. in that last sentence i have used the adjective "easy;" but please to observe it is adjoined to another hyphenically, and becomes one with it--"free-and-easy." there is really very little ease in the bush. nor does a man want it or care for it--he goes there to work. loafers had best keep to cities and to city life, and look for their _little_ enjoyments in parks and gardens by day, in smoke-filled billiard-rooms or glaringly-lighted music-halls by night, go to bed at midnight, and make a late breakfast on rusks and soda-water. we citizens of the woods and wilds do not envy them. we go to bed with the birds, or soon after. we go to sleep, no matter how hard our couches may be; and we do sleep too, and wake with clear heads and clean tongues, and after breakfast feel that nothing in the world will be a comfort to us but work. yes, men work in the bush; and, strange to say, though they go there young, they do not appear to grow quickly old. grey hairs may come, and nature may do a bit of etching on their brows and around their eyes with the pencil of time, but this does not make an atom of difference to their brains and hearts. these get a trifle tougher, that is all, but no older. well, of the three friends i think archie made the best bushman, though bob came next, then harry, who really had developed his powers of mind and body wonderfully, which only just proves that there is nothing after all, even for a cockney, like rubbing shoulders against a rough world. a dozen times a week at least archie mentally thanked his father for having taught him to work at home, and for the training he had received in riding to hounds, in tramping over the fields and moors with branson, in gaining practical knowledge at the barn-yards, and last, though not least, in the good, honest, useful groundwork of education received from his tutor walton. there was something else that archie never failed to feel thankful to heaven for, and that was the education his mother had given him. remember this: archie was but a rough, harum-scarum kind of a british boy at best, and religious teaching might have fallen on his soul as water falls on a duck's back, to use a homely phrase. but as a boy he had lived in an atmosphere of refinement. he constantly breathed it till he became imbued with it; and he received the influence also second-hand, or by reflection, from his brother rupert and his sister. often and often in the bush, around the log fire of an evening, did archie speak proudly of that beloved twain to his companions. his language really had, at times, a smack of real, downright innocence about it, as when he said to bob once: "mind you, bob, i never was what you might call good. i said, and do say, my prayers, and all the like of that; but roup and elsie were so high above me that, after coming in from a day's work or a day on the hill, it used to be like going into church on a week-day to enter the green parlour. i felt my own mental weakness, and i tried to put off my soul's roughness with my dirty boots in the kitchen." but archie was now an excellent superintendent of work. he knew when things were being well done, and he determined they should be. nothing riled him more than an attempt on the part of any of the men to take advantage of him. they soon came to know him; not as a tyrant, but simply as one who would have things rightly done, and who knew when they _were_ being rightly done, even if it were only so apparently simple a matter as planting a fence-post; for there is a right way and a wrong way of doing that. the men spoke of him as the young boss. harry being ignored in all matters that required field-knowledge. "we don't want nary a plumbline," said a man once, "when the young boss's around. he carries a plumbline in his eye." archie never let any man know when he was angry; but they knew afterwards, however, that he had been so from the consequences. yet with all his strictness he was kind-hearted, and very just. he had the happy gift of being able to put himself in the servant's place while judging betwixt man and master. communications were constantly kept up between the station and the railway, by means of waggons, or drays and saddle-horses. among the servants were several young blacks. these were useful in many ways, and faithful enough; but required keeping in their places. to be in any way familiar with them was to lose their respect, and they were not of much consequence after that. when completed, the homestead itself was certainly not devoid of comfort, though everything was of the homeliest construction; for no large amount of money was spent in getting it up. a scotchman would describe it as consisting of "twa butts and a ben," with a wing at the back. the capital letter l, laid down longways thus--i will give you some notion of its shape. there were two doors in front, and four windows, and a backdoor in the after wing, also having windows. the wing portion of the house contained the kitchen and general sitting-room; the right hand portion the best rooms, ladies' room included, but a door and passage communicated with these and the kitchen. this house was wholly built of sawn wood, but finished inside with lath and plaster, and harled outside, so that when roofed over with those slabs of wood, such as we see some old-english church steeples made of, called "shingles," the building was almost picturesque. all the more so because it was built on high ground, and trees were left around and near it. the kitchen and wing were _par excellence_ the bachelor apartments, of an evening at all events. every thing that was necessary in the way of furnishing found its way into the homestead of burley new farm; but nothing else, with the exception of that of the guests'-room. of this more anon. the living-house was completed first; but all the time that this was being built men were very busy on the clearings, and the sites were mapped out for the large wool-shed, with huge adjoining yards, where the sheep at shearing-time would be received and seen to. there were also the whole paraphernalia and buildings constituting the cattle and horse-yards, a killing and milking-yard; and behind these were slab huts, roofed with huge pieces of bark, rudely but most artistically fixed, for the men. these last had fire-places, and though wholly built of wood, there was no danger of fire, the chimneys being of stone. most of the yards and outhouses were separate from each other, and the whole steading was built on elevated ground, the store-hut being not far from the main or dwelling-house. i hardly know what to liken the contents of this store, or the inside of the place itself, to. not unlike perhaps the half-deck or fore-cabin of a greenland ship on the day when stores are being doled out to the men. or, to come nearer home, if ever the reader has been in a remote and rough part of our own country, say wales or scotland, where gangs of navvies have been encamped for a time, at a spot where a new line of railway is being pushed through a gully or glen. just take a peep inside. there is a short counter of the rudest description, on which stand scales and weights, measures and knives. larger scales stand on the floor, and everywhere around you are heaps of stores, of every useful kind you could possibly name or imagine, and these are best divided into four classes--eatables, wearables, luxuries, and tools. harry is at home here, and he has managed to infuse a kind of regularity into the place, and takes a sort of pride in knowing where all his wares are stored. the various departments are kept separate. yonder, for instance, stand the tea, coffee, and cocoa-nibs, and near them the sugar of two kinds, the bags of flour, the cheeses (in boxes), the salt (in casks), soda, soap, and last, but not least, the tobacco and spirits; this last in a place by itself, and well out of harm's way. then there is oil and candles--by-and-bye they will make these on the farm-- matches--and this brings us to the luxuries--mustard, pepper of various sorts, vinegar, pickles, curry, potted salmon, and meats of many kinds, and bags of rice. next there is a small store of medicines of the simplest, not to say roughest, sorts, both for man and beast, and rough bandages of flannel and cotton, with a bundle of splints. then comes clothing of all kinds--hats, shirts, jackets, boots, shoes, etc. then tools and cooking utensils; and in a private cupboard, quite away in a corner, the ammunition. it is unnecessary to add that harness and horse-shoes found a place in this store, or that a desk stood in one corner where account-books were kept, for the men did not invariably pay down on the nail. i think it said a good deal for sarah's courage that she came right away down into the bush with her "little man," and took charge of the cooking department on the station, when it was little, if any, better than simply a camp, with waggons for bedrooms, and a morsel of canvas for gentility's sake. but please to pop your head inside the kitchen, now that the dwelling-house has been up for some little time. before you reach the door you will have to do a bit of stepping, for outside nothing is tidied up as yet. heaps of chips, heaps of stones and sticks and builders' rubbish, are everywhere. even when you get inside there is a new smell--a limy odour--to greet you in the passage, but in the kitchen itself all is order and neatness. a huge dresser stands against the wall just under the window. the legs of it are a bit rough to be sure, but nobody here is likely to be hypercritical; and when the dinner-hour arrives, instead of the vegetables, meat, and odds-and-ends that now stand thereon, plates, and even knives and forks, will be neatly placed in a row, and sarah herself, her cooking apron replaced by a neater and nattier one, will take the head of the table, one of the boys will say a shy kind of grace, and the meal will go merrily on. on a shelf, slightly raised above the floor, stand rows of clean saucepans, stewpans, and a big, family-looking business of a frying-pan; and on the wall hang bright, shining dish-covers, and a couple of racks and shelves laden with delf. a good fire of logs burns on the low hearth, and there, among ashes pulled on one side for the purpose, a genuine "damper" is baking, while from a movable "sway" depends a chain and crook, on which latter hangs a pot. this contains corned beef--very well, call it _salt_ if you please. anyhow, when sarah lifts the lid to stick a fork into the boiling mess an odour escapes and pervades the kitchen quite appetising enough to make the teeth of a bushman water, if he had done anything like a morning's work. there is another pot close by the fire, and in this sweet potatoes are boiling. it is a warm spring day, and the big window is open to admit the air, else poor sarah would be feeling rather uncomfortable. what is "damper"? it is simply a huge, thick cake or loaf, made from extremely well-kneaded dough, and baked in the hot ashes of the hearth. like making good oat cakes, before a person can manufacture a "damper" properly, he must be in a measure to the manner born. there is a deal in the mixing of the dough, and much in the method of firing, and, after all, some people do not care for the article at all, most useful and handy and even edible though it be. but i daresay there are individuals to be found in the world who would turn up their noses at good oat cake. ah, well, it is really surprising what the air of the australian bush does in the way of increasing one's appetite and destroying fastidiousness. but it is near the dinner-hour, and right nimbly sarah serves it up; and she has just time to lave her face and hands, and change her apron, when in comes bob, followed by archie and harry. before he sits down bob catches hold of sarah by both hands, and looks admiringly into her face, and ends by giving her rosy cheek a kiss, which resounds through the kitchen rafters like the sound of a cattle-man's whip. "i declare, sarah lass," he says heartily, "you are getting prettier and prettier every day. now at this very moment your lips and cheeks are as red as peonies, and your eyes sparkle as brightly as a young kangaroo's; and if any man a stone heavier than myself will make bold to say that i did wrong to marry you on a week's courtship, i'll kick him over the river and across the creek. 'for what we are about to receive, the lord make us truly thankful. amen.' sit in, boys, and fire away. this beef is delightful. i like to see the red juice following the knife; and the sweet potatoes taste well, if they don't look pretty. what, sarah, too much done? not a bit o' them." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the creek that bob talked about kicking somebody across was a kind of strath or glen not very far from the steading, and lying below it, green and luxuriant at present. it wound away up and down the country for miles, and in the centre of it was a stream or river or burn, well clothed on its banks with bush, and opening out here and there into little lakes or pools. this stream was--so old bushmen said--never known to run dry. in the winter time it would at times well merit the name of river, especially when after a storm a "spate" came down, with a bore perhaps feet high, carrying along in its dreadful rush tree trunks, rocks, pieces of bank--everything, in fact, that came in its way, or attempted to withstand its giant power. "spates," however, our heroes hoped would come but seldom; for it is sad to see the ruin they make, and to notice afterwards the carcases of sheep and cattle, and even horses, that bestrew the haughs, or banks, and give food to prowling dingoes and birds of the air, especially the ubiquitous crow. the ordinary state of the water, however, is best described by the word stream or rivulet, while in droughty summers it might dwindle down to a mere burn meandering from pool to pool. the country all around was plain and forest and rolling hills. it was splendidly situated for grazing of a mixed kind. but our three friends were not to be content with this, and told off the best part of it for future agricultural purposes. even this was to be but a nucleus, and at this moment much of the land then untilled is yielding abundance of grain. not until the place was well prepared for them were cattle bought and brought home. sheep were not to be thought of for a year or two. with the cattle, when they began to arrive, winslow, who was soon to pay the new settlement a visit, sent up a few really good stockmen. and now archie was to see something of bush-life in reality. chapter twenty. runaway stock--bivouac in the bush-night scene. australian cattle have one characteristic in common with some breeds of pigeons, notably with those we call "homers." they have extremely good memories as to localities, and a habit of "making back," as it is termed, to the pastures from which they have been driven. this comes to be very awkward at times, especially if a whole herd decamps or takes "a moonlight flitting." it would be mere digression to pause to enquire what god-given instinct it is, that enables half-wild cattle to find their way back to their old homes in as straight a line as possible, even when they have been driven to a new station by circuitous routes. many other animals have this same homing power; dogs for example, and, to a greater extent, cats. swallows and sea-birds, such as the arctic gull, and the albatross, possess it in a very high degree; but it is still more wonderfully displayed in fur seals that, although dispersed to regions thousands and thousands of miles away during winter, invariably and unerringly find their road back to a tiny group of wave and wind-swept islands, four in number, called the prybilov group, in the midst of the fog-shrouded sea of behring. the whole question wants a deal of thinking out, and life is far too short to do it in. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ one morning, shortly after the arrival of the first great herd of stock, word was brought to head-quarters that the cattle had escaped by stampede, and were doubtless on their way to the distant station whence they had been bought. it was no time to ask the question, who was in fault? early action was necessary, and was provided for without a moment's hesitation. i rather think that archie was glad to have an opportunity of doing a bit of rough riding, and showing off his skill in horse management. he owned what bob termed a clipper. not a very handsome horse to look at, perhaps, but fleet enough and strong enough for anything. as sure-footed as a mule was this steed, and as regards wisdom, a perfect equine solomon. at a suggestion of bob's he had been named tell, in memory of the tell of other days. tell had been ridden by archie for many weeks, so that master and horse knew each other well. indeed archie had received a lesson or two from the animal that he was not likely to forget; for one day he had so far forgotten himself as to dig the rowel into tell's sides, when there was really no occasion to do anything of the sort. this was more than the horse could stand, and, though he was not an out-and-out buck-jumper, nevertheless, a moment after the stirrup performance, archie found himself making a voyage of discovery, towards the moon apparently. he descended as quickly almost as he had gone up, and took the ground on his shoulder and cheek, which latter was well skinned. tell had stood quietly by looking at him, and as archie patted him kindly, he forgave him on the spot, and permitted a remount. archie and bob hardly permitted themselves to swallow breakfast, so anxious were they to join the stockmen and be off. as there was no saying when they might return, they did not go unprovided for a night or two out. in front of their saddles were strapped their opossum rugs, and they carried also a tin billy each, and provisions, in the shape of tea, damper, and cooked corned beef; nothing else, save a change of socks and their arms. bob bade his wife a hurried adieu, archie waved his hand, and next minute they were over the paddocks and through the clearings and the woods, in which the trees had been ring-barked, to permit the grass to grow. and such tall grass archie had never before seen as that which grew in some parts of the open. "is it going to be a long job, think you, bob?" "i hardly know, archie. but craig is here." "oh, yes, gentleman craig, as mr winslow insists on calling him! you have seen him." "yes; i met him at brisbane. and a handsome chap he is. looks like a prince." "isn't it strange he doesn't rise from the ranks, as one might say; that he doesn't get on?" "i'll tell you what keeps him back," said bob, reining his horse up to a dead stop, that archie might hear him all the easier. "i'll tell you what keeps him back now, before you see him. i mustn't talk loud, for the very birds might go and tell the fellow, and he doesn't like to be 'minded about it. he drinks!" "but he can't get drink in the bush." "not so easily, though he has been known before now to ride thirty miles to visit a hotel." "a shanty, you mean." "well, they call 'em all hotels over here, you must remember." "and would he just take a drink and come back?" bob laughed. "heaven help him, no. it isn't one drink, nor ten, nor fifty he takes, for he makes a week or two of it." "i hope he won't take any such long rides while he is with us." "no. winslow says we are sure of him for six months, anyhow. then he'll go to town and knock his cheque down. but come on, craig and his lads will be waiting for us." at the most southerly and easterly end of the selection they met gentleman craig himself. he rode forward to meet them, lifting his broad hat, and reining up when near enough. he did this in a beautifully urbane fashion, that showed he had quite as much respect for himself as for his employers. he was indeed a handsome fellow, and his rough garibaldian costume fitted him, and set him out as if he had been some great actor. "this is an awkward business," he began, with an easy smile; "but i think we'll soon catch the runaways up." "i hope so," bob said. "oh, it was all my fault, because i'm boss of my gang, you know. i ought to have known better, but a small mob of stray beasts got among ours, and by-and-by there was a stampede. it was dirty-dark last night, and looked like a storm, so there wouldn't have been an ounce of use in following them up." he flicked his long whip half saucily, half angrily, as he spoke. "well, never mind," bob replied, "we'll have better luck next, i've no doubt." away they went now at a swinging trot, and on crossing the creek they met craig's fellows. they laid their horses harder at it now, bob and archie keeping a bit in the rear, though the latter declared that tell was pulling like a young steam-engine. "why," cried archie at last, "this beast means to pull my arms out at the shoulders. i always thought i knew how to hold the reins till now." "they have a queer way with them, those bush-ranging horses," said bob; "but i reckon you'll get up to them at last." "if i were to give tell his head, he would soon be in the van." "in the van? oh, i see, in the front!" "yes; and then i'd be lost. why these chaps appear to know every inch of the ground. to me it is simply marvellous." "well, the trees are blazed." "i've seen no blazed trees. have you?" "never a one. i say, craig." "hullo!" cried the head stockman, glancing over his shoulder. "are you steering by blazed trees?" "no," he laughed; "by tracks. cattle don't mind blazed trees much." perhaps bob felt green now, for he said no more. archie looked about him, but never a trail nor track could he decipher. yet on they rode, helter-skelter apparently, but cautiously enough for all that. tell was full of fire and fun; for, like verdant green's horse, when put at a tiny tree trunk in his way, he took a leap that would have carried him over a five-bar-gate. there was many a storm-felled tree in the way also and many a dead trunk, half buried in ferns; there were steep stone-clad hills, difficult to climb, but worse to descend, and many a little rivulet to cross; but nothing could interfere with the progress of these hardy horses. although the sun was blazing hot, no one seemed to feel it much. the landscape was very wild, and very beautiful; but archie got weary at last of its very loveliness, and was not one whit sorry when the afternoon halt was called under the pleasant shade of trees, and close by the banks of a rippling stream. the horses were glad to drink as well as the men, then they were hobbled, and allowed to browse while all hands sat down to eat. only damper and beef, washed down by a billyful of the clear water, which, strange to say, was wonderfully cool. when the sun was sinking low on the forest-clad horizon, there was a joyful but half-suppressed shout from craig and his men. part of the herd was in sight, quietly browsing up a creek. gentleman craig pointed them out to archie; but he had to gaze a considerable time before he could really distinguish anything that had the faintest resemblance to cattle. "your eye is young yet to the bush," said craig, laughing, but not in any unmannerly way. "and now," he continued, "we must go cautiously or we spoil all." the horsemen made a wide detour, and got between the bush and the mob; and the ground being favourable, here it was determined to camp for the night. the object of the stockmen was not to alarm the herd, but to prevent them from getting any farther off till morning, when the march homewards would commence. with this intent, log fires were built here and there around the herd; and once these were well alight the mob was considered pretty safe. all, however, had been done very quietly; and during the livelong night, until grey dawn broke over the hills, the fellows would have to keep those fires burning. supper was a more pleasing meal, for there was the addition of tea; after which, with their feet to the log fire--bob and craig enjoying a whiff of tobacco--they lay as much at their ease, and feeling every whit as comfortable, as if at home by the "ingleside." gentleman craig had many stories and anecdotes to relate of the wild life he had had, that both archie and bob listened to with delight. "i'll take one more walk around," said craig, "then stretch myself on my downy bed. will you come with me, mr broadbent?" "with pleasure," said archie. "mind how you step then. keep your whip in your hand, but on no account crack it. we have to use our intellect _versus_ brute force. if the brute force became alarmed and combined, then our intellect would go to the wall, there would be another stampede, and another long ride to-morrow." up and down in the starlight, or by the fitful gleams of the log fires, they could see the men moving like uneasy ghosts. craig spoke a word or two kindly and quietly as he passed, and having made his inspection, and satisfied himself that all was comparatively safe, he returned with archie to the fire. bob was already fast asleep, rolled snugly in his blanket, with his head in the hollow of his upturned saddle; and archie and craig made speed to follow his example. as for craig, he was soon in the land of nod. he was a true bushman, and could go off sound as a bell the moment he stretched himself on his "downy bed," as he called it. but archie felt the situation far too new to permit of slumber all at once. he had never lain out thus before; and the experience was so delightful to him that he felt justified in lying awake a bit, and looking at the stars. the distant dingoes began to howl, and more than once some great dark bird flew over the camp, high overhead, but on silent wings. his thoughts wandered away over the thousands and thousands of miles that intervened between him and home, and he began to wonder what they were all doing at burley; for it would be broad daylight there, and very likely his father was trudging over the moors, or through the stubbles. but dreams came and mingled with his waking thoughts at last, and were just usurping them all when he became conscious of the approach of stealthy footsteps. he lay perfectly still, though his hand sought his ready revolver; for stories of black fellows stealing on out-sleeping travellers began to crowd through his mind, and being young to the bush, he could not prevent that heart of his from throbbing uneasily and painfully against his ribs. how did they brain people, he was wondering, with a boomerang or nullah? or was it not more common to spear them? but, greatly to his relief, the figure immediately afterwards revealed itself in the person of one of the men, silently placing an armful of wood on the half-dying embers. then he silently glided away again, and next minute archie was wrapt in the elysium of forgetfulness. the dews lay all about, glittering in the first beams of the sun, when he awoke, feeling somewhat cold and considerably stiff; but warm tea and a breakfast of wondrous solidity soon put him all to rights again. two nights after this the new stock was safe in the yards; and every evening before sundown, for many a day to come, they had to be "tailed," and brought within the strong bars of the rendezvous. branding was the next business. this is no trifling matter with old cattle. with the calves indeed it is a bit troublesome at times, but the grown-up ones resent the adding of insult to injury. it is no uncommon thing for men to be severely injured during the operation. nevertheless the agility displayed by the stockmen and their excessive coolness is marvellous to behold. most of those cattle were branded with a "b.h.," which stood for bob and harry; but some were marked with the letters "a.b.," for archibald broadbent, and--i need not hide the truth--archie was a proud young man when he saw these marks. he realised now fully that he had commenced life in earnest, and was a squatter, not only in name, but in reality. the fencing work and improvements still went gaily on, the ground being divided into immense paddocks, many of which our young farmers trusted to see ere long covered with waving grain. the new herds soon got used to the country, and settled down on it, dividing themselves quietly into herds of their own making, that were found browsing together mornings and evenings in the best pastures, or gathered in mobs during the fierce heat of the middle-day. archie quickly enough acquired the craft of a cunning and bold stockman, and never seemed happier than when riding neck and neck with some runaway semi-wild bull, or riding in the midst of a mob, selecting the beast that was wanted. and at a job like the latter tell and he appeared to be only one individual betwixt the two of them, like the fabled centaur. he came to grief though once, while engaged heading a bull in as ugly a bit of country as any stockman ever rode over. it happened. next chapter, please. chapter twenty one. a wild adventure--archie's pride receives a fall. it happened--i was going to say at the end of the other page--that in a few weeks' time mr winslow paid his promised visit to burley new farm, as the three friends called it. great preparations had been made beforehand because etheldene was coming with her father, and was accompanied by a black maid. both etheldene and her maid had been accommodated with a dray, and when sarah, with her cheeks like ripe cherries, and her eyes like sloes, showed the young lady to her bedroom, etheldene was pleased to express her delight in no measured terms. she had not expected anything like this. real mattresses, with real curtains, a real sofa, and real lace round the looking-glass. "it is almost too good for bush-life," said etheldene; "but i am so pleased, mrs cooper; and everything is as clean and tidy as my own rooms in sydney. father, do come and see all this, and thank mrs cooper prettily." somewhat to archie's astonishment a horse was led round next morning for etheldene, and she appeared in a pretty dark habit, and was helped into the saddle, and gathered up the reins, and looked as calm and self-possessed as a princess could have done. it was gentleman craig who was the groom, and a gallant one he made. for the life of him archie could not help envying the man for his excessive coolness, and would have given half of his cattle--those with the bold "a.b.'s" on them--to have been only half as handsome. never mind. archie is soon mounted, and cantering away by the young lady's side, and feeling so buoyant and happy all over that he would not have exchanged places with a king on a throne. "oh, yes," said etheldene, laughing, as she replied to a question of archie's, "i know nearly everything about cattle, and sheep too! but," she added, "i'm sure you are clever among them already." archie felt the blood mount to his forehead; but he took off his broad hat and bowed for the compliment, almost as prettily as gentleman craig could have done himself. now, there is such a thing as being too clever, and it was trying to be clever that led poor archie to grief that day. the young man was both proud and pleased to have an opportunity of showing etheldene round the settlement, all the more so that there was to be a muster of the herds that day, and neighbour-squatters had come on horseback to assist. this was a kind of a love-darg which was very common in queensland a few years ago, and probably is to this day. archie pointed laughingly towards the stock whip etheldene carried. he never for a moment imagined it was in the girl's power to use or manage such an instrument. "that is a pretty toy, miss winslow," he said. "toy, do you call it, sir?" said this young diana, pouting prettily. "it is only a lady's whip, for the thong is but ten feet long. but listen." it flew from her hands as she spoke, and the sound made every animal within hearing raise head and sniff the air. "well," said archie, "i hope you won't run into any danger." "oh," she exclaimed, "danger is fun!" and she laughed right merrily, and looked as full of life and beauty as a bird in spring time. etheldene was tall and well-developed for her age, for girls in this strange land very soon grow out of their childhood. archie had called her diana in his own mind, and before the day was over she certainly had given proof that she well merited the title. new herds had arrived, and had for one purpose or another to be headed into the stock yards. this is a task of no little difficulty, and to-day being warm these cattle appeared unusually fidgety. twos and threes frequently stampeded from the mob, and went determinedly dashing back towards the creek and forest, so there was plenty of opportunities for anyone to show off his horsemanship. once during a chase like this archie was surprised to see etheldene riding neck and neck for a time with a furious bull. he trembled for her safety as he dashed onwards to her assistance. but crack, crack, crack went the brave girl's whip; she punished the runaway most unmercifully, and had succeeded in turning him ere her northumbrian cavalier rode up. a moment more and the bull was tearing back towards the herd he had left, a stockman or two following close behind. "i was frightened for you," said archie. "pray, don't be so, mr broadbent. i don't want to think myself a child, and i should not like you to think me one. mind, i've been in the bush all my life." but there was more and greater occasion to be frightened for etheldene ere the day was done. in fact, she ran so madly into danger, that the wonder is she escaped. she had a gallant, soft-mouthed horse--that was one thing to her advantage--and the girl had a gentle hand. but archie drew rein himself, and held his breath with fear, to see a maddened animal, that she was pressing hard, turn wildly round and charge back on horse and rider with all the fury imaginable. a turn of the wrist of the bridle hand, one slight jerk of the fingers, and etheldene's horse had turned on a pivot, we might almost say, and the danger was over. so on the whole, instead of archie having had a very grand opportunity for showing off his powers before this young diana, it was rather the other way. the hunt ended satisfactory to both parties; and while sarah was getting an extra good dinner ready, archie proposed a canter "to give them an appetite." "have you got an appetite, mr broadbent? i have." it was evident etheldene was not too fine a lady to deny the possession of good health. "yes," said archie; "to tell you the plain truth, i'm as hungry as a hunter. but it'll do the nags good to stretch their legs after so much wheeling and swivelling." so away they rode again, side by side, taking the blazed path towards the plains. "you are sure you can find your way back, i suppose?" said etheldene. "i think so." "it would be good fun to be lost." "would you really like to be?" "oh, we would not be altogether, you know! we would find our way to some hut and eat damper, or to some grand hotel, i suppose, in the bush, and father and craig would soon find us." "father and you have known craig long?" "yes, many, many years. poor fellow, it is quite a pity for him. father says he was very clever at college, and is a master of arts of cambridge." "well, he has taken his hogs to a nice market." "but father would do a deal for him if he could trust him. he has told father over and over again that plenty of people would trust him if he could only trust himself." "poor man! so nice-looking too! they may well call him gentleman craig." "but is it not time we were returning?" "look! look!" she cried, before archie could answer. "yonder is a bull-fight. whom does the little herd belong to?" "not to us. we are far beyond even our pastures. we have cut away from them. this is a kind of no-man's land, where we go shooting at times; and i daresay they are trespassers or wild cattle. pity they cannot be tamed." "they are of no use to anyone, i have heard father say, except to shoot. if they be introduced into a herd of stock cattle, they teach all the others mischief. but see how they fight! is it not awful?" "yes. had we not better return? i do not think your father would like you to witness such sights as that." the girl laughed lightly. "oh," she cried, "you don't half know father yet! he trusts me everywhere. he is very, very good, though not so refined as some would have him to be." the cows of this herd stood quietly by chewing their cuds, under the shade of a huge gum tree, while two red-eyed giant bulls struggled for mastery in the open. it was a curious fight, and a furious fight. at the time archie and his companion came in sight of the conflict, they had closed, and were fencing with their horns with as much skill, apparently, as any two men armed with foils could have displayed. the main points to be gained appeared to be to unlock or get out of touch of each other's horns long enough to stab in neck and shoulder, and during the time of being in touch to force back and gain ground. once during this fight the younger bull backed his opponent right to the top of a slight hill. it was a supreme effort, and evidently made in the hope that he would hurl him from a height at the other side. but in this he was disappointed; for the top was level, and the older one, regaining strength, hurled his enemy down the hill again far more quickly than he had come up. round and round, and from side to side, the battle raged, till at long last the courage and strength of one failed completely. he suffered himself to be backed, and it was evident was only waiting an opportunity to escape uncut and unscathed. this came at length, and he turned and, with a cry of rage, dashed madly away to the forest. the battle now became a chase, and the whole herd, holloaing good luck to the victor, joined in it. as there was no more to be seen, archie and etheldene turned their horses' heads homewards. they had not ridden far, however, before the vanquished bull himself hove in sight. he was alone now, though still tearing off in a panic, and moaning low and angrily to himself. it was at this moment that what archie considered a happy inspiration took possession of our impulsive hero. "let us wait till he passes," he said, "and drive him before us to camp." easily said. but how was it to be done? they drew back within the shadow of a tree, and the bull rushed past. then out pranced knight archie, cracking his stock whip. the monster paused, and wheeling round tore up the ground with his hoofs in a perfect agony of anger. "what next?" he seemed to say to himself. "it is bad enough to be beaten before the herd; but i will have my revenge now." the brute's roaring now was like the sound of a gong, hollow and ringing, but dreadful to listen to. archie met him boldly enough, intending to cut him in the face as he dashed past. in his excitement he dug his spurs into tell, and next minute he was on the ground. the bull rushed by, but speedily wheeled, and came tearing back, sure now of blood in which to dip his ugly hoofs. archie had scrambled up, and was near a tree when the infuriated beast came down on the charge. even at this moment of supreme danger archie-- he remembered this afterwards--could not help admiring the excessively business-like way the animal came at him to break him up. there was a terrible earnestness and a terrible satisfaction in his face or eyes; call it what you like, there it was. near as archie was to the tree, to reach and get round it was impossible. he made a movement to get at his revolver; but it was too late to draw and fire, so at once he threw himself flat on the ground. the bull rushed over him, and came into collision with the tree trunk. this confused him for a second or two, and archie had time to regain his feet. he looked wildly about for his horse. tell was quietly looking on; he seemed to be waiting for his young master. but archie never would have reached the horse alive had not brave etheldene's whip not been flicked with painful force across the bull's eyes. that blow saved archie, though the girl's horse was wounded on the flank. a minute after both were galloping speedily across the plain, all danger over; for the bull was still rooting around the tree, apparently thinking that his tormentors had vanished through the earth. "how best can i thank you?" archie was saying. "by saying nothing about it," was etheldene's answer. "but you have saved my life, child." "a mere bagatelle, as father says," said this saucy queensland maiden, with an arch look at her companion. but archie did not look arch as he put the next question. "which do you mean is the bagatelle, etheldene, my life, or the saving of it?" "yes, you may call me etheldene--father's friends do--but don't, please, call me child again." "i beg your pardon, etheldene." "it is granted, sir." "but now you haven't answered my question." "what was it? i'm so stupid!" "which did you mean was the bagatelle--my life, or the saving of it?" "oh, both!" "thank you." "i wish i could save gentleman craig's life," she added, looking thoughtful and earnest all in a moment. "bother gentleman craig!" thought archie; but he was not rude enough to say so. "why?" he asked. "because he once saved mine. that was when i was lost in the bush, you know. he will tell you some day--i will ask him to. he is very proud though, and does not like to talk very much about himself." archie was silent for a short time. why, he was wondering to himself, did it make him wretched--as it certainly had done--to have etheldene look upon his life and the saving of it as a mere bagatelle. why should she not? still the thought was far from pleasant. perhaps, if he had been killed outright, she would have ridden home and reported his death in the freest and easiest manner, and the accident would not have spoiled her dinner. the girl could have no feeling; and yet he had destined her, in his own mind, to be rupert's wife. she was unworthy of so great an honour. it should never happen if he could prevent it. suddenly it occurred to him to ask her what a bagatelle was. "a bagatelle?" she replied. "oh, about a thousand pounds. father always speaks of a thousand pounds as a mere bagatelle." archie laughed aloud--he could not help it; but etheldene looked merrily at him as she remarked quietly, "you wouldn't laugh if you knew what i know." "indeed! what is it?" "we are both lost!" "goodness forbid!" "you won't have grace to say to-day--there will be no dinner; that's always the worst of being lost." archie looked around him. there was not a blazed tree to be seen, and he never remembered having been in the country before in which they now rode. "we cannot be far out," he said, "and i believe we are riding straight for the creek." "so do i, and that is one reason why we are both sure to be wrong. it's great fun, isn't it?" "i don't think so. we're in an ugly fix. i really thought i was a better bushman than i am." poor archie! his pride had received quite a series of ugly falls since morning, but this was the worst come last. he felt a very crestfallen cavalier indeed. it did not tend to raise his spirits a bit to be told that if gentleman craig were here, he would find the blazed-tree line in a very short time. but things took a more cheerful aspect when out from a clump of trees rode a rough-looking stockman, mounted on a sackful of bones in the shape of an aged white horse. he stopped right in front of them. "hillo, younkers! whither away? can't be sundowners, sure-ly!" "no," said archie; "we are not sundowners. we are riding straight home to burley new farm." "'xcuse me for contradicting you flat, my boy. it strikes me ye ain't boss o' the sitivation. feel a kind o' bushed, don't ye?" archie was fain to confess it. "well, i know the tracks, and if ye stump it along o' me, ye won't have to play at babes o' the wood to-night." they did "stump it along o' him," and before very long found themselves in the farm pasture lands. they met craig coming, tearing along on his big horse, and glad he was to see them. "oh, craig," cried etheldene, "we've been having such fun, and been bushed, and everything!" "i found this 'ere young gent a-bolting with this 'ere young lady," said their guide, whom craig knew and addressed by the name of hurricane bill. "a runaway match, eh? now, who was in the fault? but i think i know. let me give you a bit of advice, sir. never trust yourself far in the bush with miss ethie. she doesn't mind a bit being lost, and i can't be always after her. well, dinner is getting cold." "did you wait for us?" said etheldene. "not quite unanimously, miss ethie. it was like this: mr cooper and mr harry waited for you, and your father waited for mr broadbent. it comes to the same thing in the end, you know." "yes," said etheldene, "and it's funny." "what did you come for, bill? your horse looks a bit jaded." "to invite you all to the hunt. findlayson's compliments, and all that genteel nonsense; and come as many as can. why, the kangaroos, drat 'em, are eating us up. what with them and the dingoes we've been having fine times, i can tell ye!" "well, it seems to me, bill, your master is always in trouble. last year it was the blacks, the year before he was visited by bushrangers, wasn't he?" "ye-es. fact is we're a bit too far north, and a little too much out west, and so everything gets at us like." "and when is the hunt?" "soon's we can gather." "i'm going for one," said etheldene. "what _you_, miss?" said hurricane bill. "you're most too young, ain't ye?" the girl did not condescend to answer him. "come, sir, we'll ride on," she said to archie. and away they flew. "depend upon it, bill, if she says she is going, go she will, and there's an end of it." "humph!" that was bill's reply. he always admitted he had "no great fancy for womenfolks." chapter twenty two. round the log fire--hurricane bill and the tiger-snake--gentleman craig's resolve. kangaroo driving or hunting is one of the wild sports of australia, though i have heard it doubted whether there was any real sport in it. it is extremely exciting, and never much more dangerous than a ride after the hounds at home in a rough country. it really does seem little short of murder, however, to surround the animals and slay them wholesale; only, be it remembered, they are extremely hard upon the herbage. it has been said that a kangaroo will eat as much as two sheep; whether this be true or not, these animals must be kept down, or they will keep the squatter down. every other species of wild animal disappears before man, but kangaroos appear to imagine that human beings were sent into the bush to make two blades of grass grow where only one grew before, and that both blades belong to them. the only people from burley new farm who went to the findlayson kangaroo drive were harry, archie, and etheldene, and craig to look after her. me. winslow stopped at home with bob, to give him advice and suggest improvements; for he well knew his daughter would be safe with gentleman craig. it was a long ride, however, and one night was to be spent in camp; but as there was nothing to do, and nothing in the shape of cattle or sheep to look after, it was rather jolly than otherwise. they found a delightful spot near a clear pool and close by the forest to make their pitch on for the night. hurricane bill was the active party on this occasion; he found wood with the help of harry, and enough of it to last till the morning. the beauty, or one of the beauties, of the climate in this part of australia is, that with the sun the thermometer sinks, and the later spring and even summer nights are very pleasant indeed. when supper was finished, and tea, that safest and best of stimulants, had been discussed, talking became general; everybody was in good spirits in the expectation of some fun on the morrow; for a longish ride through the depth of that gloomy forest would bring them to the plain and to findlayson's in time for a second breakfast. hurricane bill told many a strange story of australian life, but all in the way of conversation; for bill was a shy kind of man, and wanted a good deal of drawing-out, as the dog said about the badger. archie gave his experiences of hunting in england, and of shooting and fishing and country adventure generally in that far-off land, and he had no more earnest listener than etheldene. to her england was the land of romance. young though she was, she had read the most of walter scott's novels, and had an idea that england and scotland were still peopled as we find these countries described by the great wizard, and she did not wish to be disillusioned. the very mention of the word "castle," or "ruin," or "coat of mail," brought fancies and pictures into her mind that she would not have had blotted out on any account. over and over again, many a day and many a time, she had made archie describe to her every room in the old farm; and his turret chamber high up above the tall-spreading elm trees, where the rooks built and cawed in spring, and through which the wild winds of winter moaned and soughed when the leaves had fallen, was to etheldene a veritable room in fairyland. "oh," she said to-night, "how i should love it all! i do want to go to england, and i'll make father take me just once before i die." "before ye die, miss!" said hurricane bill. "why it is funny to hear the likes o' you, with all the world before ye, talkin' about dying." well, by-and-by london was mentioned, and then it was harry's turn. he was by no means sorry to have something to say. "shall i describe to you, miss winslow," he said, "some of the wild sights of whitechapel?" "is it a dreadfully wild place, mr brown?" "it is rather; eh, johnnie?" "i don't know much about it, harry." "well, there are slums near by there, miss, that no man with a black coat and an umbrella dare enter in daylight owing to the wild beasts. then there are peelers." "what are peelers? monkeys?" "yes, miss; they are a sort of monkeys--blue monkeys--and carry sticks same as the real african ourang-outangs do. and can't they use them too!" "are they very ugly?" "awful, and venomous too; and at night they have one eye that shines in the dark like a wild cat's, and you've got to stand clear when that eye's on you." "well," said etheldene, "i wouldn't like to be lost in a place like that. i'd rather be bushed where i am. but i think, mr brown, you are laughing at me. are there any snakes in whitechapel?" "no, thank goodness; no, miss. i can't stand snakes much." "there was a pretty tiger crept past you just as i was talking though," she said with great coolness. harry jumped and shook himself. etheldene laughed. "it is far enough away by this time," she remarked. "i saw something ripple past you, harry, like a whip-thong. i thought my eyes had made it." "you brought it along with the wood perhaps," said craig quietly. "'pon my word," cried harry, "you're a lot of job's comforters, all of you. d'ye know i won't sleep one blessed wink to-night. i'll fancy every moment there is a snake in my blanket or under the saddle." "they won't come near you, mr brown," said craig. "they keep as far away from englishmen as possible." "not always," said bill. "maybe ye wouldn't believe it, but i was bitten and well-nigh dead, and it was a tiger as done it. and if i ain't english, then there ain't an englishman 'twixt 'ere and melbourne. see that, miss?" he held up a hand in the firelight as he spoke. "why," said etheldene, "you don't mean to say the snake bit off half your little finger?" "not much i don't; but he bit me _on_ the finger, miss. i was a swagsman then, and was gathering wood, as we were to-night, when i got nipped, and my chum tightened a morsel of string round it to keep the poison away from the heart, then he laid the finger on a stone and chopped it off with his spade. fact what i'm telling you. but the poison got in the blood somehow all the same. they half carried me to irish charlie's hotel. lucky, that wasn't far off. then they stuck the whiskey into me." "did the whiskey kill the poison?" said archie. "whiskey kill the poison! why, young sir, charlie's whiskey would have killed a kangaroo! but nothing warmed me that night; my blood felt frozen. well, sleep came at last, and, oh, the dreams! 'twere worse ten thousand times than being wi' daniel in the den o' lions. next day nobody hardly knew me; i was blue and wrinkled. i had aged ten years in a single night." "i say," said harry, "suppose we change the subject." "and i say," said craig, "suppose we make the beds." he got up as he spoke, and began to busy himself in preparations for etheldene's couch. it was easily and simply arranged, but the arrangement nevertheless showed considerable forethought. he disappeared for a few minutes, and returned laden with all the necessary paraphernalia. a seven-foot pole was fastened to a tree; the other end supported by a forked stick, which he sharpened and drove into the ground. some grass was spread beneath the pole, a blanket thrown carefully over it, the upturned saddle put down for a pillow, and a tent formed by throwing over the pole a loose piece of canvas that he had taken from his saddle-bow, weighted down by some stones, and the whole was complete. "now, baby," said craig, handing etheldene a warm rug, "will you be pleased to retire?" "where is my flat candlestick?" she answered. gentleman craig pointed to the southern cross. "yonder," he said. "is it not a lovely one?" "it puts me in mind of old, old times," said etheldene with a sigh. "and you're calling me 'baby' too. do you remember, ever so long ago in the bush, when i was a baby in downright earnest, how you used to sing a lullaby to me outside my wee tent?" "if you go to bed, and don't speak any more, i may do so again." "good-night then. sound sleep to everybody. what fun!" then baby disappeared. craig sat himself down near the tent, after replenishing the fire--he was to keep the first watch, then bill would come on duty--and at once began to sing, or rather 'croon' over, an old, old song. his voice was rich and sweet, and though he sang low it could be heard distinctly enough by all, and it mingled almost mournfully with the soughing of the wind through the tall trees. "my song is rather a sorrowful ditty," he had half-whispered to archie before he began; "but it is poor miss ethie's favourite." but long before craig had finished no one around the log fire was awake but himself. he looked to his rifle and revolvers, placed them handy in case of an attack by blacks, then once more sat down, leaning his back against a tree and giving way to thought. not over pleasant thoughts were those of gentleman craig's, as might have been guessed from his frequent sighs as he gazed earnestly into the fire. what did he see in the fire? _tableaux_ of his past life? perhaps or perhaps not. at all events they could not have been very inspiriting ones. no one could have started in life with better prospects than he had done; but he carried with him wherever he went his own fearful enemy, something that would not leave him alone, but was ever, ever urging him to drink. even as a student he had been what was called "a jolly fellow," and his friendship was appreciated by scores who knew him. he loved to be considered the life and soul of a company. it was an honour dearer to him than anything else; but deeply, dearly had he paid for it. by this time he might have been honoured and respected in his own country, for he was undoubtedly clever; but he had lost himself, and lost all that made life dear--his beautiful, queenly mother. he would never see her more. she was _dead_, yet the memory of the love she bore him was still the one, the only ray of sunshine left in his soul. and he had come out here to australia determined to turn over a new leaf. alas! he had not done so. "oh, what a fool i have been!" he said in his thoughts, clenching his lists until the nails almost cut the palms. he started up now and went wandering away towards the trees. there was nothing that could hurt him there. he felt powerful enough to grapple with a dozen blacks, but none were in his thoughts; and, indeed, none were in the forest. he could talk aloud now, as he walked rapidly up and down past the weird grey trunks of the gum trees. "my foolish pride has been my curse," he said bitterly. "but should i allow it to be so? the thing lies in a nutshell i have never yet had the courage to say, 'i will not touch the hateful firewater, because i cannot control myself if i do.' if i take but one glass i arouse within me the dormant fiend, and he takes possession of my soul, and rules all my actions until sickness ends my carousal, and i am left weak as a child in soul and body. if i were not too proud to say those words to my fellow-beings, if i were not afraid of being laughed at as a _coward_! ah, that's it! it is too hard to bear! shall i face it? shall i own myself a coward in this one thing? i seem compelled to answer myself, to answer my own soul. or is it my dead mother's spirit speaking through my heart? oh, if i thought so i--i--" here the strong man broke down. he knelt beside a tree trunk and sobbed like a boy. then he prayed; and when he got up from his knees he was calm. he extended one hand towards the stars. "mother," he said, "by god's help i shall be free." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ when the morning broke pale and golden over the eastern hills, and the laughing jackasses came round to smile terribly loud and terribly chaffingly at the white men's preparation for their simple breakfast, craig moved about without a single trace of his last night's sorrow. he was busy looking after the horses when etheldene came bounding towards him with both hands extended, so frank and free and beautiful that as he took hold of them he could not help saying: "you look as fresh as a fern this morning, baby." "not so green, craig. say 'not so green.'" "no, not so green. but really to look at you brings a great big wave of joy surging all over my heart. but to descend from romance to common-sense. i hope you are hungry? i have just been seeing to your horse. where do you think i found him?" "i couldn't guess." "why in the water down yonder. lying down and wallowing." "the naughty horse! ah, here come the others! good morning all." "we have been bathing," said archie. "oh, how delicious!" "yes," said harry; "johnnie and i were bathing down under the trees, and it really was a treat to see how quickly he came to bank when i told him there was an alligator taking stock." "we scared the ducks though. pity we didn't bring our guns and bag a few." "i believe we'll have a right good breakfast at findlayson's," said craig; "so i propose we now have a mouthful of something and start." the gloom of that deep forest became irksome at last; though some of its trees were wondrous to behold in their stately straightness and immensity of size, the trunks of others were bent and crooked into such weird forms of contortion, that they positively looked uncanny. referring to these, archie remarked to craig, who was riding by his side: "are they not grotesquely beautiful?" craig laughed lightly. "their grotesqueness is apparent anyhow," he replied. "but would you believe it, in this very forest i was a week mad?" "mad!" "yes; worse than mad--delirious. oh, i did not run about, i was too feeble! but a black woman or girl found me, and built a kind of bark gunja over me, for it rained part of the time and dripped the rest. and those trees with their bent and gnarled stems walked about me, and gibbered and laughed, and pointed crooked fingers at me. i can afford to smile at it now, but it was very dreadful then; and the worst of it was i had brought it all on myself." archie was silent. "you know in what way?" added craig. "i have been told," archie said, simply and sadly. "for weeks, mr broadbent, after i was able to walk, i remained among the blacks doing nothing, just wandering aimlessly from place to place; but the woods and the trees looked no longer weird and awful to me then, for i was in my right mind. it was spring--nay, but early summer--and i could feel and drink in all the gorgeous beauty of foliage, of tree flowers and wild flowers, nodding palms and feathery ferns; but, oh! i left and went south again; i met once more the white man, and forgot all the religion of nature in which my soul had for a time been steeped. so that is all a kind of confession. i feel the better for having made it. we are all poor, weak mortals at the best; only i made a resolve last night." "you did?" "yes; and i am going to keep it. i am going to have help." "help!" "yes, from him who made those stately giants of the forest and changed their stems to silvery white. he can change all things." "amen!" said archie solemnly. chapter twenty three. at findlayson's farm--the great kangaroo hunt--a dinner and concert. gentleman craig was certainly a strange mortal; but after all he was only the type of a class of men to be found at most of our great universities. admirable crichtons in a small way, in the estimation of their friends--bold, handsome, careless, and dashing, not to say clever--they may go through the course with flying colours. but too often they strike the rocks of sin and sink, going out like the splendid meteors of a november night, or sometimes--if they continue to float-- they are sent off to australia, with the hopes of giving them one more chance. alas! they seldom get farther than the cities. it is only the very best and boldest of them that reach the bush, and there you may find them building fences or shearing sheep. if any kind of labour at all is going to make men of them, it is this. two minutes after craig had been talking to archie, the sweet, clear, ringing notes of his manly voice were awaking echoes far a-down the dark forest. parrots and parrakeets, of lovely plumage, fluttered nearer, holding low their wise, old-fashioned heads to look and listen. lyre-birds hopped out from under green fern-bushes, raising their tails and glancing at their figures in the clear pool. they listened too, and ran back to where their nests were to tell their wives men-people were passing through the forest singing; but that they, the cock lyre-birds, could sing infinitely better if they tried. on and on and on went the cavalcade, till sylvan beauty itself began to pall at last, and no one was a bit sorry when all at once the forest ended, and they were out on a plain, out in the scrub, with, away beyond, gently-rising hills, on which trees were scattered. the bleating of sheep now made them forget all about the gloom of the forest. they passed one or two rude huts, and then saw a bigger smoke in the distance, which bill told archie was findlayson's. findlayson came out to meet them. a scot every inch of him, you could tell that at a glance. a scot from the soles of his rough shoes to the rim of his hat; brown as to beard and hands, and with a good-natured face the colour of a badly-burned brick. he bade them welcome in a right hearty way, and helped "the lassie" to dismount. he had met "the lassie" before. "but," he said, "i wadna hae kent ye; you were but a bit gilpie then. losh! but ye have grown. your father's weel, i suppose? ah, it'll be a while afore anybody makes such a sudden haul at the diggin' o' gowd as he did! but come in. it's goin' to be anither warm day, i fear. "breakfast is a' ready. you'll have a thistle fu' o' whiskey first, you men folks. rin butt the hoose, my dear, and see my sister. tell her to boil the eggs, and lift the bacon and the roast ducks." he brought out the bottle as he spoke. both harry and archie tasted to please him. but craig went boldly into battle. "i'm done with it, findlayson," he said. "it has been my ruin. i'm done. i'm a weak fool." "but a wee drap wadna hurt you, man. just to put the dust out o' your wizzen." craig smiled. "it is the wee draps," he replied, "that do the mischief." "well, i winna try to force you. here comes the gude wife wi' the teapot." "bill," he continued, "as soon as you've satisfied the cravins o' nature, mount the grey colt, and ride down the creek, and tell them the new chums and i will be wi' them in half an hour." and in little over that specified time they had all joined the hunt. black folks and "orra men," as findlayson called them, were already detouring around a wide track of country to beat up the kangaroos. there were nearly a score of mounted men, but only one lady besides etheldene, a squatter's bold sister. the dogs were a sight to look at. they would have puzzled some englishmen what to make of them. partly greyhounds, but larger, sturdier, and stronger, as if they had received at one time a cross of mastiff. they looked eminently fit, however, and were with difficulty kept back. every now and then a distant shout was heard, and at such times the hounds seemed burning to be off. but soon the kangaroos themselves began to appear thick and fast. they came from one part or another in little groups, meeting and hopping about in wonder and fright. they seemed only looking for a means of escape; and at times, as a few rushing from one direction met others, they appeared to consult. many stood high up, as if on tiptoe, gazing eagerly around, with a curious mixture of bewilderment and fright displayed on their simple but gentle faces. they got small time to think now, however, for men and dogs were on them, and the flight and the murder commenced with a vengeance. there were black fellows there, who appeared to spring suddenly from the earth, spear-armed, to deal terrible destruction right and left among the innocent animals. and black women too, who seemed to revel in the bloody sight. if the whites were excited and thirsty for carnage, those aborigines were doubly so. meanwhile the men had dismounted, archie and harry among the rest, and were firing away as quickly as possible. there is one thing to be said in favour of the gunners; they took good aim, and there was little after-motion in the body of the kangaroo in which a bullet had found a billet. after all archie was neither content with the sport, nor had it come up as yet to his _beau ideal_ of adventure from all he had heard and read of it. the scene was altogether noisy, wild, and confusing. the blacks gloated in the bloodshed, and archie did not love them any the more for it. it was the first time he had seen those fellows using their spears, and he could guess from the way they handled or hurled them that they would be pretty dangerous enemies to meet face to face in the plain or scrub. "harry," he said after a time, "i'm getting tired of all this; let us go to our horses." "i'm tired too. hallo! where is the chick-a-biddy?" "you mean miss winslow, harry." "ay, johnnie." "i have not seen her for some time." they soon found her though, near a bit of scrub, where their own horses were tied. she was sitting on her saddle, looking as steady and demure as an equestrian statue. the sunshine was so finding that they did not at first notice her in the shade there until they were close upon her. "what, etheldene!" cried archie; "we hardly expected you here." "where, then?" "following the hounds." "what! into that mob? no, that is not what i came for." at that moment craig rode up. "so glad," he said, "to find you all here. mount, gentlemen. are you ready, baby?" "ready, yes, an hour ago, craig." they met horsemen and hounds not far away, and taking a bold detour over a rough and broken country, at the edge of a wood, the hounds found a "forester," or old man kangaroo. the beast had a good start if he had taken the best advantage of it; but he failed to do so. he had hesitated several times; but the run was a fine one. a wilder, rougher, more dangerous ride archie had never taken. the beast was at bay before very long, and his resistance to the death was extraordinary. they had many more rides before the day was over; and when they re-assembled in farmer findlayson's hospitable parlour, archie was fain for once to own himself not only tired, but "dead beat." the dinner was what harry called a splendid spread. old findlayson had been a gardener in his younger days in england, and his wife was a cook; and one of the results of this amalgamation was, dinners or breakfasts either, that had already made the scotchman famous. here was soup that an epicure would not have despised, fish to tempt a dying man, besides game of different kinds, pies, and last, if not least, steak of kangaroo. the soup itself was made from the tail of the kangaroo, and i know nothing more wholesome and nourishing, though some may think it a little strong. while the white folks were having dinner indoors, the black fellows were doing ample justice to theirs _al fresco_, only they had their own _cuisine_ and _menu_, of which the least said the better. "you're sure, mr craig, you winna tak' a wee drappie?" if the honest squatter put this question once in the course of the evening, he put it twenty times. "no, really," said craig at last; "i will not tak' a wee drappie. i've sworn off; i have, really. besides, your wife has made me some delightful tea." "weel, man, tak' a wee drappie in your last cup. it'll cheer ye up." "take down your fiddle, findlayson, and play a rattling strathspey or reel, that'll cheer me up more wholesomely than any amount of 'wee drappies.'" "come out o' doors then." it was cool now out there in findlayson's garden--it was a real garden too. his garden and his fiddle were findlayson's two fads; and that he was master of both, their present surroundings of fern and flower, and delicious scent of wattle-blossom, and the charming strains that floated from the corner where the squatter stood were proof enough. the fiddle in his hands talked and sang, now bold or merrily, now in sad and wailing notes that brought tears to even archie's eyes. then, at a suggestion of craig's, etheldene's sweet young voice was raised in song, and this was only the beginning of the concert. conversation filled up the gaps, so that the evening passed away all too soon. just as findlayson had concluded that plaintive and feeling air "auld robin gray," a little black girl came stealthily, silently up to etheldene, and placed a little creature like a rabbit in her lap, uttering a few words of bush-english, which seemed to archie's ear utterly devoid of sense. then the black girl ran; she went away to her own camp to tell her people that the white folks were holding a corroboree. the gift was a motherless kangaroo, that at once commenced to make itself at home by hiding its innocent head under etheldene's arm. the party soon after broke up for the night, and next day but one, early in the morning, the return journey was commenced, and finished that night; but the sun had gone down, and the moon was shining high and full over the forest, before they once more reached the clearing. chapter twenty four. a new arrival. winslow made months of a stay in the bush, and his services were of great value to the young squatters. the improvements he suggested were many and various, and he was careful to see them carried out. dams were made, and huge reservoirs were dug; for, as winslow said, their trials were all before them, and a droughty season might mean financial ruin to them. "nevertheless," he added one day, addressing bob, "i feel sure of you; and to prove this i don't mind knocking down a cheque or two to the tune of a thou or three or five if you want them. "i'll take bank interest," he added, "not a penny more." bob thanked him, and consulted the others that evening. true, archie's aristocratic pride popped up every now and then, but it was kept well under by the others. "besides, don't you see, johnnie," said harry, "this isn't a gift. winslow is a business man, and he knows well what he is about." "and," added bob, "the fencing isn't finished yet. we have all those workmen's mouths to fill, and the sooner the work is done the better." "then the sheep are to come in a year or so, and it all runs away with money, johnnie. our fortunes are to be made. there is money on the ground to be gathered up, and all that winslow proposes is holding the candle to us till we fill our pockets." "it is very kind of him," said archie, "but--" "well," said bob, "i know where your 'buts' will end if you are not careful. you will give offence to mr winslow, and he'll just turn on his heel and never see us again." "do you think so?" "think so? yes, archie, i'm sure of it. a better-hearted man doesn't live, rough and all as he is; and he has set his mind to doing the right thing for us all for your sake, lad, and so i say, think twice before you throw cold water over that big, warm heart of his." "well," said archie, "when you put it in that light, i can see matters clearly. i wouldn't offend my good old uncle ramsay's friend for all the world. i'm sorry i ever appeared bluff with him. so you can let him do as he pleases." and so winslow did to a great extent. nor do i blame bob and harry for accepting his friendly assistance. better far to be beholden to a private individual, who is both earnest and sincere, than to a money-lending company, who will charge double interest, and make you feel that your soul is not your own. better still, i grant you, to wait and work and plod; but this life is almost too short for much waiting, and after all, one half of the world hangs on to the skirts of the other half, and that other half is all the more evenly balanced in consequence. i would not, however, have my young readers misunderstand me. what i maintain is this, that although a poor man cannot leave this country in the expectation that anybody or any company will be found to advance the needful to set him up in the business of a squatter, still, when he has worked hard for a time, beginning at the lowermost ring of the ladder, and saved enough to get a selection, and a few cattle and sheep, then, if he needs assistance to heave ahead a bit, he will--if everything is right and square--have no difficulty in finding it. so things went cheerily on at burley new farm. and at last winslow and etheldene took their departure, promising to come again. "so far, lads," said winslow, as he mounted his horse, "there hasn't been a hitch nowheres. but mind keep two hands at the wheel." mr winslow's grammar was not of the best, and his sentences generally had a smack of the briny about them, which, however, did not detract from their graphicness. "tip us your flippers, boys," he added, "and let us be off. but i'm just as happy as if i were a father to the lot of you." gentleman craig shook hands with mr winslow. he had already helped etheldene into her saddle. archie was standing by her, the bridle of his own nag tell thrown carelessly over his arm; for good-byes were being said quite a mile from the farm. "i'll count the days, etheldene, till you come again," said archie. "the place will not seem the same without you." craig stood respectfully aside till archie had bade her adieu, then, with his broad hat down by his side, he advanced. he took her hand and kissed it. "good-bye, baby," he said. there were tears in etheldene's eyes as she rode away. big winslow took off his hat, waved it over his head, and gave voice to a splendid specimen of a british cheer, which, i daresay, relieved his feelings as much as it startled the lories. the "boys" were not slow in returning that cheer. then away rode the winslows, and presently the grey-stemmed gum trees swallowed them up. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ two whole years passed by. so quickly, too, because they had not been idle years. quite the reverse of that, for every day brought its own duties with it, and there was always something new to be thought about or done. one event had taken place which, in bob's eyes, eclipsed all the others--a little baby squatter saw the light of day. but i should not have used the word eclipsed. little "putty-face," as harry most irreverently called her, did not eclipse anything; on the contrary, everything grew brighter on her arrival, and she was hailed queen of the station. the news spread abroad like wildfire, and people came from far and near to look at the wee thing, just as if a baby had never been born in the bush before. findlayson dug the child with his forefinger in the cheek, and nodded and "a-goo-ed" to it, and it smiled back, and slobbered and grinned and jumped. findlayson then declared it to be the wisest "wee vision o' a thing the warld ever saw." sarah was delighted, so was the nurse--a young sonsy scotch lass brought to the station on purpose to attend to baby. "but," said findlayson, "what about bapteezin' the blessed wee vision." "oh," said bob, "i've thought of that! craig and i are going to brisbane with stock, and we'll import a parson." it so happened that a young missionary was on his way to spread the glad tidings among the blacks, and it did not need much coaxing on bob's part to get him to make a detour, and spend a week at burley new farm. so this was the imported parson. but being in brisbane, bob thought he must import something else, which showed what a mindful father he was. he had a look round, and a glance in at all the shop windows in queen street, finally he entered an emporium that took his fancy. "ahem!" said bob. "i want a few toys." "yes, sir. about what age, sir?" "the newest and best you have." "i didn't refer to the age of the toys," said the urbane shopkeeper, with the ghost of a smile in his eye. "i should have said, toys suitable for what age?" "for every age," replied bob boldly. the shopkeeper then took the liberty of remarking that his visitor must surely be blessed with a quiverful. "i've only the one little girl," said bob. "she fills the book as yet. but, you see, we're far away in the bush, and baby will grow out of gum-rings and rattles, won't she, into dolls and dung-carts? d'ye see? d'ye understand?" "perfectly." it ended in bob importing not only the parson in a dray, but a box of toys as big as a sea-chest, and only bob himself could have told you all that was in it. that box would have stocked a toyshop itself and harry and archie had the grandest of fun unpacking it, and both laughed till they had to elevate their arms in the air to get the stitches out of their sides. the amusing part of it was that innocent bob had bought such a lot of each species. a brown paper parcel, for example, was marked " gross: gum-rings." "that was a job lot," said bob, explaining. "i got them at a reduction, as the fellow said. besides, if she has one in each hand, and another in her mouth, it will keep her out of mischief for a month or two to begin with." there was no mistake about it, baby was set up; for a time, at all events. not only did visitors--rough and smooth, but mostly rough--come from afar, but letters of congratulation also. winslow said in a letter that etheldene was dying to come and see "the vision," and so was he, though not quite so bad. "only," he added, "as soon eth is finished we'll both run up. eth is going to melbourne to be finished, and i think a year will do the job." "whatever does he mean," said stalwart bob, "by finishing eth, and doing the job?" "why, you great big brush turkey," said sarah, "he means finishing her edication, in coorse!" "oh, i see now!" said bob. "to be sure; quite right. i say, sarah, we'll have to send 'the vision' to a slap-up lady's school one of these days, won't us?" "bob," replied sarah severely, "tell that lazy black chap, jumper, to dig some potatoes." "i'm off, sarah! i'm off!" both harry and archie had by this time become perfect in all a squatter's art. both had grown hard and hardy, and i am not sure that harry was not now quite as bold a rider as archie himself, albeit he was a cockney born, albeit he had had to rub himself after that first ride of his on scallowa, the "eider duck." well, then, both he and archie were perfectly _au fait_ at cattle work in all its branches, and only those who have lived _on_ and had some interest _in_ farming have an idea what a vast amount of practical work breeding cattle includes. one has really to be jack-of-all-trades, and a veterinary surgeon into the bargain. moreover, if he be master, and not merely foreman, there are books to be kept; so he must be a good accountant, and a good caterer, and always have his weather eye lifting, and keeping a long lookout for probable changes in the markets. but things had prospered well at burley new station. one chief reason of this was that the seasons had been good, and that there was every prospect that the colony of queensland was to be one of the most respected and favourite in the little island. for most of his information on the management of sheep, archie and his companions were indebted to the head stockman, gentleman craig. he had indeed been a godsend, and proved himself a blessing to the station. it is but fair to add that he had sacredly and sternly kept the vow he had registered that night. he did not deny that it had been difficult for him to do so; in fact he often referred to his own weakness when talking to archie, whose education made him a great favourite and the constant companion of craig. "but you don't feel any the worse for having completely changed your habits, do you?" said archie one day. craig's reply was a remarkable one, and one that should be borne in mind by those teetotallers who look upon inebriety as simply a species of moral aberration, and utterly ignore the physiology of the disease. "to tell you the truth, mr broadbent, i am both better and worse. i am better physically; i am in harder, more robust, muscular health; i'm as strong in the arms as a kicking kangaroo. i eat well, i sleep fairly well, and am fit in every way. but i feel as if i had passed through the vale of the shadow of death, and it had left some of its darkness on and in my soul. i feel as if the cure had mentally taken a deal out of me; and when i meet, at brisbane or other towns, men who offer me drink i feel mean and downcast, because i have to refuse it, and because i dared not even take it as food and medicine. no one can give up habits of life that have become second nature without mental injury, if not bodily. and i'm more and more convinced every month that intemperance is a disease of periodicity, just like gout and rheumatism." "you have cravings at certain times, then?" "yes; but that isn't the worst. the worst is that periodically in my dreams i have gone back to my old ways, and think i am living once again in the fool's paradise of the inebriate; singing wild songs, drinking recklessly, talking recklessly, and looking upon life as but a brief unreality, and upon time as a thing only to be drowned in the wine-cup. yes, but when i awake from these pleasantly-dreadful dreams, i thank god fervidly i have been but dreaming." archie sighed, and no more was said on the subject. letters came from home about once a month, but they came to archie only. yet, though bob had never a friend to write to him from northumbria, nor harry one in whitechapel, the advent of a packet from home gave genuine joy to all hands. archie's letters from home were read first by archie himself, away out under the shade of a tree as likely as not. then they were read to his chums, including sarah and diana. diana was the baby. but they were not finished with even then. no; for they were hauled out and perused night after night for maybe a week, and then periodically for perhaps another fortnight. there was something new to talk about found in them each time; something suggesting pleasant conversation. archie was often even amused at "his dear old dad's" remarks and advice. he gave as many hints, and planned as many improvements, as though he had been a settler all his life, and knew everything there was any need to know about the soil and the climate. he believed--i.e., the old squire believed--that if he were only out among them, he would show even the natives [white men born in the bush] a thing or two. yes, it was amusing; and after filling about ten or twelve closely-written pages on suggested improvements, he was sure to finish up somewhat as follows in the postscript: "but after all, archie, my dear boy, you must be very careful in all you do. never go like a bull at a gate, lad. don't forget that i--even i-- was not altogether successful at burley old farm." "bless that postscript," archie would say; "mother comes in there." "does she now?" sarah would remark, looking interested. "ay, that she does. you see father just writes all he likes first-- blows off steam as it were; and mother reads it, and quietly dictates a postscript." then there were elsie's letters and rupert's, to say nothing of a note from old kate and a crumpled little enclosure from branson. well, in addition to letters, there was always a bundle of papers, every inch of which was read--even the advertisements, and every paragraph of which brought back to archie and bob memories of the dear old land they were never likely to forget. chapter twenty five. the stream of life flows quietly on. one day a grand gift arrived from england, being nothing less than a couple of splendid scotch collies and a pair of skye terriers. they had borne the journey wonderfully well, and set about taking stock, and settling themselves in their new home, at once. archie's pet kangaroo was an object of great curiosity to the skyes at first. on the very second day of their arrival bobie and roup, as they were called, marched up to the kangaroo, and thus addressed him: "we have both come to the conclusion that you are something that shouldn't be." "indeed!" said the kangaroo. "yes; so we're going to let the sawdust out of you." "take that then to begin with!" said mr kangaroo; and one of the dogs was kicked clean and clear over a fern bush. they drew off after that with their tails well down. they thought they had made a mistake somehow. a rabbit that could kick like a young colt was best left to his own devices. the collies never attempted to attack the kangaroo; but when they saw the droll creature hopping solemnly after archie, one looked at the other, and both seemed to laugh inwardly. the collies were placed under the charge of craig to be broken to use, for both were young, and the skyes became the vermin-killers. they worked in couple, and kept down the rats far more effectually than ever the cats had done. they used to put dingoes to the rout whenever or wherever they saw them; and as sometimes both these game little animals would return of a morning severely bitten about the face and ears, it was evident enough they had gone in for sharp service during the night. one curious thing about the skyes was, that they killed snakes, and always came dragging home with the loathsome things. this was very clever and very plucky; nevertheless, a tame laughing jackass that harry had in a huge cage was to them a pet aversion. perhaps the bird knew that; for as soon as he saw them he used to give vent to a series of wild, defiant "ha-ha-ha's" and "hee-hee-hee's" that would have laid a ghost. the improvements on that portion of burley new farm more immediately adjoining the steading had gone merrily on, and in a year or two, after fencing and clearing the land, a rough style of agriculture was commenced. the ploughs were not very first-class, and the horses were oxen--if i may make an irish bull. they did the work slowly but well. they had a notion that every now and then they ought to be allowed to go to sleep for five minutes. however, they were easily roused, and just went on again in a dreamy kind of way. the land did not require much coaxing to send up crops of splendid wheat. it was a new-born joy to bob and archie to ride along their paddocks, and see the wind waving over the growing grain, making the whole field look like an inland sea. "what would your father say to a sight like that?" said bob one morning while the two were on their rounds. "he would start subsoiling ploughs and improve it." "i don't know about the improvement, archie, but i've no doubt he would try. but new land needs little improving." "maybe no; but mind you, bob, father is precious clever, though i don't hold with all his ways. he'd have steam-ploughs here, and steam-harrows too. he'd cut down the grain to the roots by steam-machines, or he'd have steam-strippers." "but you don't think we should go any faster?" "bob, i must confess i like to take big jumps myself. i take after my father in some things, but after my scottish ancestors in others. for instance, i like to know what lies at the other side of the hedge before i put my horse at it." the first crops of wheat that were taken off the lands of burley new farm were gathered without much straw. it seemed a waste to burn the latter; but the distance from the railway, and still more from a market-town, made its destruction a necessity. nor was it altogether destruction either; for the ashes served as a fertiliser for future crops. as things got more settled down, and years flew by, the system of working the whole station was greatly improved. bob and harry had become quite the home-farmers and agriculturists, while the cattle partially, and the sheep almost wholly, became the care of archie, with gentleman craig as his first officer. craig certainly had a long head on his broad shoulders. he did not hesitate from the first to give his opinions as to the management of the station. one thing he assured the three friends of: namely, that the sheep must be sent farther north and west if they were to do well. "they want higher and dryer ground," he said; "but you may try them here." i think at this time neither bob nor archie knew there was anything more deadly to be dreaded than foot-rot, which the constant attention of the shepherds, and a due allowance of blue-stone, served out from harry's stores, kept well under. they gained other and sadder experience before very long, however. at first all went as merrily as marriage bells. the first sheep-shearing was a never-to-be-forgotten event in the life of our bushmen. the season was october--a spring month in australia--and the fleeces were in fine form, albeit some were rather full of grass seed. they were mostly open, however, and everyone augured a good clip. sarah was very busy indoors superintending everything; for there was extra cooking to be done now. wee diana, who had developed into quite a bush child, though a pretty one, toddled about here, there, and everywhere; the only wonder is--as an irishman might say--that she did not get killed three or four times a day. diana had long since abjured gum-rings and rattles, and taken to hoops and whips. one of the collie dogs, and the pet kangaroo, were her constant companions. as previously stated, both collies had been sent to craig to be trained; but as bounce had a difference of opinion with one of the shepherds, he concluded he would make a change by the way of bettering himself, so he had taken french leave and come home to the steading. he would have been sent off again, sure enough, if he had not--collie-like--enlisted sarah herself on his behalf. this he had done by lying down beside little diana on the kitchen floor. the two kissed each other and fell asleep. bounce's position was assured after that. findlayson, who did not mean to commence operations among his own fleeces for another month, paid a visit to burley, and brought with him a few spare hands. harry had plenty to do both out of doors and in his stores; for many men were now about the place, and they must all eat and smoke. "as sure as a gun," said findlayson the first morning, "that joukie-daidles o' yours 'ill get killed." he said this just after about three hundred sheep had rushed the child, and run over her. it was the fault of the kangaroo on one hand, and the collie, bounce, on the other. findlayson had picked her off the ground, out of a cloud of dust, very dirty, but smiling. "what is to be done with her?" said bob, scratching his head. "fauld her," said findlayson. "what does that mean?" findlayson showed him what "faulding" meant. he speedily put up a little enclosure on an eminence, from which diana could see all without the possibility of escaping. so every day she, with her dog and the pet kangaroo, to say nothing of a barrow-load of toys, including a huge noah's ark, found herself happy and out of harm's way. diana could be seen at times leaning over the hurdle, and waving a hand exultingly in the air, and it was presumed she was loudly cheering the men's performance; but as to hearing anything, that seemed utterly out of the question, with the baa-ing and maa-ing of the sheep. when the work was in full blast it certainly was a strange sight, and quite colonial. archie had been at sheep-shearings before at home among the cheviot hills, but nothing to compare to this. there was, first and foremost, the sheep to be brought up in batches or flocks from the distant stations, men and dogs also having plenty to do to keep them together, then the enclosing them near the washing-ground. the dam in which the washing took place was luckily well filled, for rain had fallen not long before. sheep-washing is hard work, as anyone will testify who has tried his hand at it for even half a day. sheep are sometimes exceedingly stupid, more particularly, i think, about a time like this. the whole business is objected to, and they appear imbued with the idea that you mean to drown them, and put every obstacle in your way a stubborn nature can invent. the sheep, after being well scrubbed, were allowed a day to get dry and soft and nice. then came the clipping. gentleman craig was stationed at a platform to count the fleeces and see them ready for pressing, and archie's work was cut out in seeing that the fellows at the clipping did their duty properly. it was a busy, steaming time, on the whole, for everybody, but merry enough nevertheless. there was "lashins" of eating and drinking. findlayson himself took charge of the grog, which was mostly rum, only he had a small store of mountain dew for his own special consumption. harry was quite the whitechapel tradesman all over, though you could not have told whether the grocer or butcher most predominated in his appearance. the clipping went on with marvellous speed, a rivalry existing between the hands apparently; but as they were paid by the number of fleeces, there was evident desire on the part of several to sacrifice perfection to rapidity. when it was all over there was still a deal to be done in clearing up and getting the whole station resettled, one part of the resettling, and the chief too, being the re-establishing of the sheep on their pasturage after marking them. the wool was pressed into bales, and loaded on huge bullock-waggons, which are in appearance something between an ordinary country wood-cart and a brewer's dray. the road to the distant station was indeed a rough one, and at the slow rate travelled by the bullock teams the journey would occupy days. craig himself was going with the last lot of these, and archie had started early and ridden on all alone to see to business in brisbane. he had only been twice at the town in the course of three years, so it is no wonder that now he was impressed with the notion that the well-dressed city folks must stare at him, to see if he had any hay-seed in his hair. winslow was coming round by boat, and etheldene as well; she had been at home for some time on a holiday. why was it, i wonder, that archie paid a visit to several outfitters' shops in brisbane, and made so many purchases? he really was well enough dressed when he entered the town; at all events, he had looked a smart young farmer all over. but when he left his bedroom on the morning of winslow's arrival, he had considerably more of the english squire than the australian squatter about his _tout ensemble_. but he really looked a handsome, happy, careless young fellow, and that bit of a sprouting moustache showed off his good looks to perfection. he could not help feeling it sometimes as he sat reading a paper in the hotel hall, and waiting for his friends, and was fool enough to wonder if etheldene would think him improved in appearance. but archie was neither "masher" nor dandy at heart. he was simply a young man, and i would not value any young man who did not take pains with his personal appearance, even at the risk of being thought proud. archie had not long to wait for winslow. he burst in like a fresh sea-breeze--hale, hearty, and bonnie. he was also a trifle better dressed than usual. but who was that young lady close by his left hand? that couldn't be--yes, it was etheldene, and next moment archie was grasping a hand of each. etheldene's beauty had matured; she had been but a girl, a child, when archie had met her before. now she was a bewitching young lady, modest and lovely, but, on the whole, so self-possessed that if our hero had harboured any desire to appear before her at his very best, and keep up the good impression by every means in his power, he had the good sense to give it up and remain his own natural honest self. but he could not help saying to himself, "what a wife she will make for rupert! and how elsie will love and adore her! and i--yes, i will be content to remain the big bachelor brother." there was such a deal to ask of each other, such a deal to do and to say, that days flew by before they knew where they were, as winslow expressed it. on the fifth day gentleman craig arrived to give an account of his stewardship. etheldene almost bounded towards him. but she looked a little shy at his stare of astonishment as he took her gloved hand. "baby," he exclaimed, "i would hardly have known you! how you have improved!" then the conversation became general. when accounts were squared, it was discovered that, by the spring wool, and last year's crops and bullocks, the young squatters had done wonderfully well, and were really on a fair way to wealth. "now, archie broadbent," said winslow that night, "i am going to put you on to a good thing or two. you are a gentleman, and have a gentleman's education. you have brains, and can do a bit of speculation; and it is just here where brains come in." winslow then unfolded his proposals, which were of such an inviting kind that archie at once saw his way to benefit by them. he thanked winslow over and over again for all he had done for him, and merely stipulated that in this case he should be allowed to share his plans with bob and harry. to this, of course, winslow made no objection. "as to thanking me for having given ye a tip or two," said winslow, "don't flatter yourself it is for your sake. it is all to the memory of the days i spent as steward at sea with your good old uncle. did you send him back his fifty pounds?" "i did, and interest with it." "that is right. that is proper pride." archie and the winslows spent a whole fortnight in brisbane, and they went away promising that ere long they would once more visit the station. the touch of etheldene's soft hand lingered long in archie's. the last look from her bonnie eyes haunted him even in his dreams, as well as in his waking thoughts. the former he could not command, so they played him all kinds of pranks. but over his thoughts he still had sway; and whenever he found himself thinking much about etheldene's beauty, or winning ways, or soft, sweet voice, he always ended up by saying to himself, "what a love of a little wife she will make for rupert!" one day, while archie was taking a farewell walk along queen street, glancing in here and there at the windows, and now and then entering to buy something pretty for sarah, something red--dazzling--for her black servant-maid, and toys for di, he received a slap on the back that made him think for a moment a kangaroo had kicked him. "what!" he cried, "captain vesey?" "ay, lad, didn't i say we would meet again?" "well, wonders will never cease! where have you been? and what have you been doing?" "why i've gone in for trade a bit. i've been among the south sea islands, shipping blacks for the interior here; and, to tell you the truth, my boy, i am pretty well sick of the job from all i've seen. it is more like buying slaves, and that is the honest truth." "and i suppose you are going to give it up?" the captain laughed--a laugh that archie did not quite like. "yes," he said, "i'll give it up after--another turn or two. but come and have something cooling, the weather is quite summery already. what a great man you have grown! when i saw you first you were just a--" "a hobbledehoy?" "something like that--very lime-juicy, but very ardent and sanguine. i say, you didn't find the streets of sydney paved with gold, eh?" "not quite," replied archie, laughing as he thought of all his misery and struggles in the capital of new south wales. "but," he added, "though i did not find the streets paved with gold, i found the genuine ore on a housetop, or near it, in a girl called sarah." "what, archie broadbent, you don't mean to say you're married?" "no; but bob is." "what bob? here, waiter, bring us drinks--the best and coolest you have in the house. now, lad, you've got to begin at the beginning of your story, and run right through to the end. spin it off like a man. i'll put my legs on a chair, smoke, and listen." so archie did as he was told, and very much interested was captain vesey. "and now, captain, you must promise to run down, and see us all in the bush. we're a jolly nice family party, i can assure you." "i promise, my boy, right heartily. i hope to be back in brisbane in six months. expect to see me then." they dined together, and spent the evening talking of old times, and planning all that they would do when they met. next day they parted. the end of this spring was remarkable for floods. never before had our heroes seen such storms of rain, often accompanied with thunder and lightning. archie happened to be out in the forest when it first came on. it had been a hot, still, sulphurous morning, which caused even the pet kangaroo to lie panting on his side. then a wind came puffing and roaring through the trees in uncertain gusts, shaking the hanging curtains of climbing plants, rustling and rasping among the sidelong leaved giant gums, tearing down tree ferns and lovely orchids, and scattering the scented bloom of the wattle in every direction. with the wind came the clouds, and a darkness that could be felt. then down died the fitful breeze, and loud and long roared and rattled the thunder, while the blinding lightning seemed everywhere. it rushed down the darkness in rivers like blood, it glanced and glimmered on the pools of water, and zigzagged through the trees. from the awful hurtling of the thunder one would have thought every trunk and stem were being rent and riven in pieces. tell--the horse--seemed uneasy, so archie made for home. the rain had come on long before he reached the creek, but the stream was still fordable. but see! he is but half-way across when, in the interval between the thunder peals, he can hear a steady rumbling roar away up the creek and gulley, but coming closer and closer every moment. on, on, on, good tell! splash through that stream quicker than ever you went before, or far down the country to-morrow morning two swollen corpses will be seen floating on the floods! bewildered by the dashing rain, and the mist that rose on every side, archie and his trusty steed had but reached high ground when down came the bore. a terrible sight, though but dimly seen. fully five feet high, it seemed to carry everything before it. alas! for flocks and herds. archie could see white bodies and black, tumbling and trundling along in the rolling "spate." the floods continued for days. and when they abated then losses could be reckoned. though dead cattle and sheep now lay in dozens about the flat lands near the creek, only a small percentage of them belonged to burley. higher up findlayson had suffered, and many wild cattle helped to swell the death bill. but it was bad enough. however, our young squatters were not the men to sit down to cry over spilt milk. the damage was repaired, and the broken dams were made new again. and these last were sadly wanted before the summer went past. for it was unusually hot, the sun rising in a cloudless sky, blazing down all day steadily, and setting without even a ray being intercepted by a cloud. bush fires were not now infrequent. while travelling in a distant part of the selection, far to the west, in company with craig, whom he had come to visit, they were witnesses to a fire of this sort that had caught a distant forest. neither pen nor pencil could do justice to such a scene. luckily it was separated from the burley estate by a deep ravine. one of the strangest sights in connection with it was the wild stampede of the panic-stricken kangaroos and bush horses. to work in the fields was now to work indeed. bob's complexion and archie's were "improved" to a kind of brick-red hue, and even harry got wondrously tanned. there was certainly a great saving in clothes that year, for excepting light, broad-brimmed hats, and shirts and trousers, nothing else was worn by the men. but the gardens were cool in the evening, in spite of the midday glare of the sun, and it was delightful to sit out in the open for an hour or two and think and talk of the old country; while the rich perfume of flowers hung warm in the air, and the holy stars shimmered and blinked in the dark blue of the sky. chapter twenty six. "i'll write a letter home." the summer wore away, autumn came, the harvest was made good, and in spite of the drought it turned out well; for the paddocks chosen for agricultural produce seldom lacked moisture, lying as they did on the low lands near the creek, and on rich ground reclaimed from the scrub. our bushmen were congratulating themselves on the success of their farming; for the banking account of all three was building itself, so to speak, slowly, but surely. archie was now quite as wealthy as either of his companions; for his speculations, instigated by his friend winslow, had turned out well; so his stock had increased tenfold, and he had taken more pasture to the westward and north, near where bob's and harry's sheep now were; for craig's advice had been acted on. none too soon though; for early in the winter an old shepherd arrived in haste at the homesteading to report an outbreak of inflammatory catarrh among the flocks still left on the lower pastures. the events that quickly followed put archie in mind of the "dark days" at burley old farm, when fat beasts were dying in twos and threes day after day. sheep affected with this strange ailment lived but a day or two, and the only thing to do was to kill them on the very first symptoms of the ailment appearing. they were then just worth the price of their hides and tallow. considering the amount of extra work entailed, and the number of extra hands to be hired, and the bustle and stir and anxiety caused by the outbreak, it is doubtful if it would not have been better to bury them as they fell, skin and all. this was one of the calamities which winslow had pointed out to archie as likely to occur. but it was stamped out at last. the sheep that remained were sent away to far-off pastures; being kept quite separate, however, from the other flocks. so the cloud passed away, and the squatters could breathe freely again, and hope for a good lambing season, when winter passed away, and spring time came once more. "bob," said archie one evening, as they all sat round the hearth before retiring to bed, "that fire looks awfully cosy, doesn't it? and all the house is clean and quiet--oh, so quiet and delightful that i really wonder anyone could live in a city or anywhere near the roar and din of railway trains! then our farm is thriving far beyond anything we could have dared to expect. we are positively getting rich quickly, if, indeed, we are not rich already. and whether it be winter or summer, the weather is fine, glorious sometimes. indeed, it is like a foretaste of heaven, bob, in my humble opinion, to get up early and wander out of doors." "well," said bob, "small reason to be ashamed to say that, my boy." "hold on, bob, i'm coming to the part i'm ashamed of; just you smoke your pipe and keep quiet. well, so much in love am i with the new country that i'm beginning to forget the old. of course i'll always-- always be a true englishman, and i'd go back to-morrow to lay down my life for the dear old land if it was in danger. but it isn't, it doesn't want us, it doesn't need us; it is full to overflowing, and i daresay they can do without any of us. but, bob, there is my dear old father, mother, elsie, and rupert. now, if it were only possible to have them here. but i know my father is wedded to burley, and his life's dream is to show his neighbours a thing or two. i know too that if he starts machinery again he will be irretrievably lost." archie paused, and the kangaroo looked up into his face as much as to say, "go on, i'm all attention." "well, bob, if i make a pile here and go home, i'll just get as fond of burley as i was when a boy, and i may lose my pile too. it seems selfish to speak so, but there is no necessity for it. so i mean to try to get father to emigrate. do you think such a thing is possible, bob?" "it's the same with men as with trees, archie. you must loosen the ground about them, root by root must be carefully taken up if you want to transplant them, and you must take so much of the old earth with them that they hardly know they are being moved. sarah, bring the coffee. as for my own part, archie, i am going back; but it is only just to see the old cottage, the dear old woods, and--and my mother's grave." "yes," said archie, thoughtfully. "well, root by root you said, didn't you?" "ay, root by root." "then i'm going to begin. rupert and elsie will be the first roots. roup isn't over strong yet. this country will make a man of him. bob and you, harry, can go to bed as soon as you like. i'm going out to think and walk about a bit. stick another log or two on the fire, and as soon as you have all turned in i'll write a letter home. i'll begin the uprooting, though it does seem cruel to snap old ties." "well," said harry, "thank goodness, i've got no ties to snap. and i think with you, archie, that the old country isn't a patch on the new. just think o' the london fogs. you mind them, sarah." "i does, 'arry." "and the snow." "and the slush, 'arry." "and the drizzle." "and the kitchen beetles, boy. it would take a fat little lot to make me go back out o' the sunshine. here's the coffee." "keep mine hot, sarah." away went archie out into the night, out under the stars, out in the falling dew, and his kangaroo went jumping and hopping after him. the sky was very bright and clear to-night, though fleece-shaped, snow-white clouds lay low on the horizon, and the moon was rising through the distant woods, giving the appearance of some gigantic fire as its beams glared red among the topmost branches. there was the distant howling or yelling of dingoes, and the low, half-frightened bleat of sheep, and there was the rippling murmur of the stream not far off, but all else was still. it was two hours before archie found his way back. the kangaroo saw him to the door, then went off to curl up in the shed till the hot beams of the morning sun should lure him forth to breakfast. and all alone sat archie, by the kitchen table, writing a letter home by the light of candles made on the steading. it was very still now in the house--only the ticking of the clock, the occasional whirr of some insect flying against the window, anxious to come into the light and warmth and scratching of the young man's pen. surely the dog knew that archie was writing home, for presently he got slowly up from his corner and came and leant his head on his master's knee, in that wise and kindly way collies have of showing their thoughts and feelings. archie must leave off writing for a moment to smooth and pet the honest "bawsent" head. now it would be very easy for us to peep over archie's shoulder and read what he was writing, but that would be rude; anything rather than rudeness and impoliteness. rather, for instance, let us take a voyage across the wide, terribly wide ocean, to pay a visit to burley old farm, and wait till the letter comes. "i wonder," said elsie with a gentle sigh, and a long look at the fire, "when we may expect to hear from archie again. dear me, what a long, long time it is since he went away! let me see, rupert, it is going on for six years, isn't it?" "yes. archie must be quite a man by now." "he's all right," said the squire. "that he is, i know," said uncle ramsay. "he's in god's good hands," said the mother, but her glasses were so moist she had to take them off to wipe them; "he is in god's good hands, and all we can do now is to pray for him." two little taps at the green-parlour door and enter the maid, not looking much older, and not less smart, than when last we saw her. "if you please, sir, there's a gentleman in the study as would like to see you." "oh," she added, with a little start, "here he comes!" and there he came certainly. "god bless all here!" he cried heartily. "what," exclaimed the squire, jumping up and holding out his hand, "my dear old friend venturesome vesey!" "yes, yankee charlie, and right glad i am to see you." "my wife and children, vesey. though you and i have often met in town since my marriage, you've never seen them before. my brother, whom you know." vesey was not long in making himself one of the family circle, and he gave his promise to stay at burley old farm for a week at least. rupert and elsie took to him at once. how could they help it? a sailor and gentleman, and a man of the world to boot. besides, coming directly from archie. "i just popped into the house the very morning after he had written the letter i now hand to you," said captain vesey. "he had an idea it would be safer for me to bring it. well, here it is; and i'm going straight away out to the garden to smoke a pipe under the moon while you read it. friend as i am of archie's, you must have the letter all to yourselves;" and away went vesey. "send for old kate and branson," cried the squire, and they accordingly marched in all expectancy. then the father unfolded the letter with as much reverence almost as if it had been _foxe's book of martyrs_. every eye was fixed upon him as he slowly read it. even bounder, the great newfoundland, knew something unusual was up, and sat by elsie all the time. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ archie's letter home. "my dearest mother,--it is to you i write first, because i know that a proposal i have to make will 'take you aback,' as my friend winslow would say. i may as well tell you what it is at once, because, if i don't, your beloved impatience will cause you to skip all the other parts of the letter till you come to it. now then, my own old mummy, wipe your spectacles all ready, catch hold of the arm of your chair firmly, and tell elsie to 'stand by'--another expression of winslow's--the smelling-salts bottle. are you all ready? heave oh! then. i'm going to ask you to let rupert and elsie come out to me here. "have you fainted, mummy? not a bit of it; you're my own brave mother! and don't you see that this will be only the beginning of the end? and a bright, happy end, mother, i'm looking forward to its being. it will be the reunion of us all once more; and if we do not live quite under one roof, as in the dear old days at burley old farm, we will live in happy juxtaposition. "'what!' you cry, 'deprive me of my children?' it is for your children's good, mummy. take rupert first. he is not strong now, but he is young. if he comes at once to this glorious land of ours, on which i am quite enthusiastic, he will get as hardy as a new hollander in six months' time. wouldn't you like to see him with roses on his face, mother, and a brow as brown as a postage stamp? send him out. would you like him to have a frame of iron, with muscles as tough as a mainstay? send him out. would you like him to be as full of health as an egg is full of meat? and so happy that he would have to get up at nights to sing? then send him here. "take poor me next. you've no notion how homesick i am; i'm dying to see some of you. i am making money fast, and i love my dear, free, jolly life; but for all that, there are times that i would give up everything i possess--health, and hopes of wealth--for sake of one glance at your dear faces, and one run round burley old farm with father." this part of archie's letter told home. there were tears in mrs broadbent's motherly eyes; and old kate was heard to murmur, "dear, bonnie laddie!" and put her apron to her face. "then," the letter continued, "there is elsie. it would do her good to come too, because--bless the lassie!--she takes her happiness at second-hand; and knowing that she was a comfort to us boys, and made everything cheery and nice, would cause her to be as jolly as the summer's day is long or a gum tree high. then, mother, we three should work together with only one intent--that of getting you and father both out, and old kate and branson too. "as for you, dad, i know you will do what is right; and see how good it would be for us all to let roup and elsie come. then you must remember that when we got things a bit straighter, we would expect you and mother to follow. you, dear dad, would have full scope here for your inventive genius, and improvements that are thrown away in england could be turned to profit out here. "we would not go like a bull at a gate at anything, father; but what we do want here is machinery, easily worked, for cutting up and dealing with wood; for cutting up ground, and for destroying tree stumps; and last, but not least, we want wells, and a complete system of irrigation for some lands, that shall make us independent to a great extent of the sparsely-failing rains of some seasons. of course you could tell us something about sheep disease and cattle plague, and i'm not sure you couldn't help us to turn the wild horses to account, with which some parts of the interior swarm." squire broadbent paused here to exclaim, as he slapped his thigh with his open palm: "by saint andrews, brother, archie is a chip of the old block! he's a true broadbent, i can tell you. he appreciates the brains of his father too. heads are what are wanted out there; genius to set the mill a-going. as for this country--pah! it's played out. yes, my children, you shall go, and your father will follow." "my dear elsie and rupert," the letter went on, "how i should love to have you both out here. i have not asked you before, because i wanted to have everything in a thriving condition first; but now that everything is so, it wants but you two to help me on, and in a year or two--hurrah! for dad and the mum! "yes, elsie, your house is all prepared. i said nothing about this before. i've been, like the duck-bill, working silently out of sight--out of your sight i mean. but there it is, the finest house in all the district, a perfect mansion; walls as thick as burley old tower--that's for coolness in summer. lined inside with cedar--that's for cosiness in winter. big hall in it, and all the rooms just _facsimile_ of our own house at home, or as near to them as the climate will admit. "but mind you, elsie, i'm not going to have you banished to the bush wilds altogether. no, lassie, no; we will have a mansion--a real mansion--in sydney or brisbane as well, and the house at burley new farm will be our country residence. "i know i'll have your answer by another mail, and it will put new life into us all to know you are coming. then i will start right away to furnish our house. our walls shall be polished, pictures shall be hung, and mirrors everywhere; the floors shall glitter like beetles' wings, and couches and skins be all about. i'm rather lame at house description, but you, elsie, shall finish the furnishing, and put in the nicknacks yourself. "i'm writing here in the stillness of night, with our doggie's head upon my knee. all have gone to bed--black and white--in the house and round the station. but i've just come in from a long walk in the moonlight. i went out to be alone and think about you; and what a glorious night, rupert! we have no such nights in england. though it is winter, it is warm and balmy. it is a delight to walk at night either in summer or winter. oh, i do wish i could describe to you my garden as it is in spring and early summer! that is, you know, _our_ garden that is going to be. i had the garden laid out and planted long before the house was put up, and now my chief delight is to keep it up. you know, as i told you before, i went to melbourne with the winslows. well, we went round everywhere, and saw everything; we sailed on the lovely river, and i was struck with the wonderful beauty of the gardens, and determined ours should be something like it. and when the orange blossom is out, and the fragrant verbenas, and a thousand other half-wild flowers, with ferns, ferns, ferns everywhere, and a fountain playing in the shadiest nook--this was an idea of harry's--you would think you were in fairyland or dreamland, or 'through the looking-glass,' or somewhere; anyhow, you would be entranced. "but to-night, when i walked there, the house--our house you know-- looked desolate and dreary, and my heart gave a big superstitious thud when i heard what i thought was a footstep on the verandah, but it was only a frog as big as your hat. "that verandah cost me and harry many a ramble into the scrub and forest, but now it is something worth seeing, with its wealth of climbing flowering plants, its hanging ferns, and its clustering marvellous orchids. "yes, the house looks lonely; looks haunted almost; only, of course, ghosts never come near a new house. but, dear elsie, how lovely it will look when we are living in it! when light streams out from the open casement windows! when warmth and music are there! oh, come soon, come _soon_! you see i'm still impulsive. "you, elsie, love pets. i daresay bounder will come with you. poor scallowa! i was sorry to hear of his sad death. but we can have all kinds of pets here. we have many. to begin with, there is little diana, she is queen of the station, and likely to be; she is everybody's favourite. then there are the collies, and the kangaroo. he is quite a darling fellow, and goes everywhere with me. "our laughing jackass is improving every day. he looks excessively wise when you talk to him, and if touched up with the end of a brush of turkey's feathers, which we keep for the purpose, he goes off into such fits of mad hilarious, mocking, ringing laughter that somebody has got to pick him up, cage and all, and make all haste out of the house with him. "we have also a pet bear; that is harry's. but don't jump. it is no bigger than a cat, and far tamer. it is a most wonderful little rascal to climb ever you saw. koala we call him, which is his native name, and he is never tired of exploring the roof and rafters; but when he wants to go to sleep, he will tie himself round sarah's waist, with his back downwards, and go off as sound as a top. "we have lots of cats and a cockatoo, who is an exceedingly mischievous one, and who spends most of his life in the garden. he can talk, and dance, and sing as well. and he is a caution to snakes, i can tell you. i don't want to frighten you though. we never see the 'tiger' snake, or hardly ever, and i think the rest are harmless. i know the swagsmen, and the sundowners too, often kill the carpet snake, and roast and eat it when they have no other sort of fresh meat. i have tasted it, and i can tell you, rupert, it is better than roasted rabbit. "i'm going to have a flying squirrel. the first time i saw these creatures was at night among the trees, and they startled me--great shadowy things sailing like black kites from bough to bough. "kangaroos are cautions. we spend many and many a good day hunting them. if we did not kill them they would eat us up, or eat the sheep's fodder up, and that would be all the same. "gentleman craig has strange views about most things; he believes in darwin, and a deal that isn't darwin; but he says kangaroos first got or acquired their monster hindlegs, and their sturdy tails, from sitting up looking over the high grass, and cropping the leaves of bushes. he says that australia is two millions of years old at the very least. "i must say i like craig very much. he is so noble and handsome. what a splendid soldier he would have made! but with all his grandeur of looks--i cannot call it anything else--there is an air of pensiveness and melancholy about him that is never absent. even when he smiles it is a sad smile. ah! rupert, his story is a very strange one; but he is young yet, only twenty-six, and he is now doing well. he lives by himself, with just one shepherd under him, on the very confines of civilisation. i often fear the blacks will bail up his hut some day, and mumkill him, and we should all be sorry. craig is saving money, and i believe will be a squatter himself one of these days. etheldene is very fond of him. sometimes i am downright jealous and nasty about it, because i would like you, rupert, to have etheldene for a wife. and she knows all about the black fellows, and can speak their language. well, you see, rupert, you could go and preach to and convert them; for they are not half so bad as they are painted. the white men often use them most cruelly, and think no more of shooting them than i should of killing an old man kangaroo. "when i began this letter, dearest elsie and old roup, i meant to tell you such a lot i find i shall have no chance of doing--all about the grand trees, the wild and beautiful scenery, the birds and beasts and insects, but i should have to write for a week to do it. so pray forgive my rambling letter, and come and see it all for yourself. "come you must, else--let me see now what i shall threaten. oh, i have it; i won't ever return! but if you do come, then in a few years we'll all go back together, and bring out dad and the dear mummy. "i can't see to write any more. no, the lights are just as bright as when i commenced; but when i think of dad and the mum, my eyes _will_ get filled with moisture. so there! "god bless you all, _all_, from the mum and dad all the way down to kate, branson, and bounder. "archie broadbent, c.o.b. "p.s.--do you know what c.o.b. means? it means chip of the old block. hurrah!" chapter twenty seven. rumours of war. as soon as squire broadbent read his son's letter he carefully folded it up, and with a smile on his face handed it to rupert. and by-and-bye, when captain vesey returned, and settled into the family circle with the rest, and had told them all he could remember about archie and burley new farm in australia, the brother and sister, followed by bounder, slipped quietly out and told old kate they were going to the tower. would she come? that she would. and so for hours they all sat up there before the fire talking of archie, and all he had done and had been, and laying plans and dreaming dreams, and building castles in the air, just in the same way that young folks always have done in this world, and will, i daresay, continue to do till the end of time. but that letter bore fruit, as we shall see. things went on much as usual in the bush. winter passed away, spring came round and lambing season, and the shepherds were busy once more. gentleman craig made several visits to the home farm, and always brought good news. it was a glorious time in every way; a more prosperous spring among the sheep no one could wish to have. on his last visit to the house craig stayed a day or two, and archie went back with him, accompanied by a man on horseback, with medicines and some extra stores--clothing and groceries, etc, i mean, for in those days live stock was sometimes called stores. they made findlayson's the first night, though it was late. they found that the honest scot had been so busy all day he had scarcely sat down to a meal. archie and craig were "in clipping-time" therefore, for there was roast duck on the table, and delightful potatoes all steaming hot, and, as usual, the black bottle of mountain dew, a "wee drappie" of which he tried in vain to get either craig or archie to swallow. "oh, by-the-bye, men," said findlayson, in the course of the evening-- that is, about twelve o'clock--"i hear bad news up the hills way." "indeed," said craig. "ay, lad. you better ha'e your gun loaded. the blacks, they say, are out in force. they've been killing sheep and bullocks too, and picking the best." "well, i don't blame them either. mind, we white men began the trouble; but, nevertheless, i'll defend my flock." little more was said on the subject. but next morning another and an uglier rumour came. a black fellow or two had been shot, and the tribe had sworn vengeance and held a corroboree. "there's a cloud rising," said findlayson. "i hope it winna brak o'er the district." "i hope not, findlayson. anyhow, i know the black fellows well. i'm not sure i won't ride over after i get back and try to get to the bottom of the difference." the out-station, under the immediate charge of gentleman craig, was fully thirty miles more to the north and west than findlayson's, and on capital sheep-pasture land, being not very far from the hills--a branch ridge that broke off from the main range, and lay almost due east and west. many a splendidly-wooded glen and gully was here; but at the time of our story these were still inhabited by blacks innumerable. savage, fierce, and vindictive they were in all conscience, but surely not so brave as we sometimes hear them spoken of, else could they have swept the country for miles of the intruding white man. in days gone by they had indeed committed some appallingly-shocking massacres; but of late years they had seemed contented to either retire before the whites or to become their servants, and receive at their hands that moral death--temptation to drink--which has worked such woe among savages in every quarter of the inhabitable globe. as archie and his companion came upon the plain where--near the top of the creek on a bit of tableland--craig's "castle," as he called it, was situated, the owner looked anxiously towards it. at first they could see no signs of life; but as they rode farther on, and nearer, the shepherd himself came out to meet them, roup, the collie, bounding joyfully on in front, and barking in the exuberance of his glee. "all right and safe, shepherd?" "all right and safe, sir," the man returned; "but the blacks have been here to-day." "then i'll go there to-morrow." "i don't think that's a good plan." "oh! isn't it? well, i'll chance it. will you come, mr broadbent?" "i will with pleasure." "anything for dinner, george?" "yes, sir. i expected you; and i've got a grilled pheasant, and fish besides." "ah, capital! but what made you expect me to-day?" "the dog roup, sir. he was constantly going to the door to look out, so i could have sworn you would come." the evening passed away quietly enough. dwelling in this remote region, and liable at any time to be attacked, gentleman craig had thought it right to almost make a fort of his little slab hut. he had two black fellows who worked for him, and with their assistance a rampart of stones, earth, and wood was thrown up, although these men had often assured him that "he," craig, "was 'corton budgery,' and that there was no fear of the black fellows 'mumkill' him." "i'm not so very sure about it," thought craig; "and it is best to be on the safe side." they retired to-night early, having seen to the sheep and set a black to watch, for the dingoes were very destructive. both craig and archie slept in the same room, and they hardly undressed, merely taking off their coats, and lying down on the rough bed of sacking, with collie near the door to do sentry. they had not long turned in when the dog began to growl low. "down charge, roup," said craig. instead of obeying, the dog sprang to the door, barking fiercely. both archie and craig were out of bed in a moment, and handling their revolvers. craig managed to quieten roup, and then listened attentively. the wind was rising and moaning round the chimney, but above this sound they could hear a long-prolonged "coo--oo--ee!" "that's a white man's voice," said craig; "we're safe." the door and fort was at once opened, and a minute after five squatters entered. "sorry we came so late," they said; "but we've been and done it, and it took some time." "what have you done?" said craig. "fired the woods all along the gullies among the hills." "is that fair to the blacks?" "curse them!" exclaimed the spokesman. "why do they not keep back? the law grumbles if we shoot the dogs, unless in what they please to call self-defence, which means after they have speared our beasts and shepherds, and are standing outside our doors with a nullah ready to brain us." craig and archie went to the door and looked towards the hills. what a scene was there! the fire seemed to have taken possession of the whole of the highlands from east to west, and was entwining wood and forest, glen and ravine, in its snake-like embrace. the hills themselves were cradled in flames and lurid smoke. the stems of the giant gum trees alone seemed to defy the blaze, and though their summits looked like steeples on fire, the trunks stood like pillars of black marble against the golden gleam behind them. the noise was deafening, and the smoke rolled away to leeward, laden with sparks thick as the snowflakes in a winter's fall. it was an appalling sight, the description of which is beyond the power of any pen. "well, men," said craig when he re-entered the hut, "i don't quite see the force of what you have done. it is like a declaration of war, and, depend upon it, the black fellows will accept the challenge." "it'll make the grass grow," said one of the men with a laugh. "yes," said another; "and that grass will grow over a black man's grave or two ere long, if i don't much mistake." "it wouldn't be worth while burying the fiends," said a third. "we'll leave them to the rooks." "well," said craig, "there's meat and damper there, men. stir up the fire, warm your tea, and be happy as long as you can. we're off to bed." gentleman craig was as good as his word next day. he rode away in search of the tribe, and after a long ride found them encamped on a tableland. as it turned out they knew him, and he rode quietly into their midst. they were all armed with spear, and nullah, and boomerang. they were tattooed, nearly naked, and hideous enough in their horrid war-paint. craig showed no signs of fear. indeed he felt none. he told the chief, however, that he had not approved of the action of the white men, his brothers, and had come, if possible, to make peace. why should they fight? there was room enough in the forest and scrub for all. if they--the blacks--would leave the cattle and flocks of the squatters alone, he--craig--could assure them things would go on as happily as before. "and if not?" they asked. "if not, for one black man there was in the country, there were a thousand white. they would come upon them in troops, even like the locusts; they would hunt them as they hunted the dingoes; they would kill them as dingoes were killed, and before long all the black fellows would be in the land of forgetfulness. what would it profit them then that they had speared a few white fellows?" craig stayed for hours arguing with these wild men, and left at last after having actually made peace with honour. the cloud had rolled away, for a time at all events. in the course of a few days archie and his man left on his return journey. findlayson made up his mind to go on with him to burley new farm; for this scot was very fond of an occasional trip eastwards, and what he called a "twa-handed crack" with bob or harry. everybody was glad to see him; for, truth to tell, no one had ever seen findlayson without a smile on his old-fashioned face, and so he was well liked. bob came galloping out to meet them, and with him, greatly to archie's astonishment, was what he at first took for a black bear. the black bear was bounder. archie dismounted and threw his arms round the great honest dog's neck, and almost burst into tears of joy. for just half a minute bounder was taken aback; then memory came rushing over him; he gave a jump, and landed archie on his back, and covered his face and hair with his canine kisses. but this was not enough. bounder must blow off steam. he must get rid of the exuberance of his delight before it killed him. so with a half-hysterical but happy bark he went off at a tangent, and commenced sweeping round and round in a circle so quickly that he appeared but a black shape. this wild caper he kept up till nearly exhausted, then returned once more to be embraced. "so they've come." it was all that archie could say. yes, they had come. elsie had come, rupert had come, branson and bounder had come. and oh, what a joyful meeting that was! only those who have been separated for many long years from all they love and hold dear, and have met just thus, as archie now met his sister and brother, can have any appreciation of the amount of joy that filled their hearts. the very first overflowing of this joy being expended, of course the next thing for both archie and the newcomers to say was, "how you've changed!" yes, they had all changed. none more so than elsie. she always gave promise of beauty; but now that archie held her at arms' length, to look at and criticise, he could not help exclaiming right truthfully: "_why_, elsie, you're almost as beautiful as etheldene!" "oh, what a compliment!" cried rupert. "i wouldn't have it, elsie. that '_almost_' spoils it." "just you wait till you see etheldene, young man," said archie, nodding his head. "you'll fall in love at once. i only hope she won't marry gentleman craig. and how is mother and father?" then questions came in streams. to write one half that was spoken that night would take me weeks. they all sat out in the verandah of the old house; for the night was sultry and warm, and it was very late indeed before anyone ever thought of retiring. findlayson had been unusually quiet during the whole of the evening. to be sure, it would not have been quite right for him to have put in his oar too much, but, to tell the truth, something had happened which appeared to account for his silence. findlayson had fallen in love-- love at first sight. oh, there are such things! i had a touch of the complaint myself once, so my judgment is critical. of course, it is needless to say that elsie was the bright particular star, that had in one brief moment revolutionised the existence and life of the ordinarily placid and very matter-of-fact findlayson. so he sat to-night in his corner and hardly spoke, but, i daresay, like paddy's parrot, he made up for it in thinking; and he looked all he could also, without seeming positively rude. well, a whole fortnight was spent by archie in showing his brother and sister round the station, and initiating them into some of the mysteries and contrarieties of life in the australian bush. after this the three started off for brisbane and sydney, to complete the purchase of furniture for archie's house. archie proved himself exceedingly clever at this sort of thing, considering that he was only a male person. but in proof of what i state, let me tell you, that before leaving home he had even taken the measure of the rooms, and of the windows and doors. and when he got to sydney he showed his taste in the decorative art by choosing "fixings" of an altogether oriental and semi-aesthetic design. at sydney elsie and rupert were introduced to the winslows, and, as soon as he conveniently could, archie took his brother's opinion about etheldene. very much to his astonishment, rupert told him that etheldene was more sisterly than anything else, and he dare say she was rather a nice girl--"as far as girls go." archie laughed outright at rupert's coolness, but somehow or other he felt relieved. first impressions go a far way in a matter of this kind, and it was pretty evident there was little chance of rupert's falling in love with etheldene, for some time at least. yet this was the plan of campaign archie had cut out: rupert and etheldene should be very much struck with each other from the very first; the young lady should frequently visit at burley new farm, and, for the good of his health, rupert should go often to sydney. things would progress thus, off and on, for a few years, then the marriage would follow, rupert being by this time settled perhaps, and in a fair way of doing well. i am afraid archie had reckoned without his host, or even his hostess. he was not long in coming to this conclusion either; and about the same time he made another discovery, very much to his own surprise; namely, that he himself was in love with etheldene, and that he had probably been so for some considerable length of time, without knowing it. he determined in his own mind therefore that he would steel his heart towards miss winslow, and forget her. before elsie and rupert came to settle down finally at the farm, they enjoyed, in company with mr winslow and his daughter, many charming trips to what i might call the show-places of australia. sydney, and all its indescribably-beautiful surroundings, they visited first. then they went to melbourne, and were much struck with all the wealth and grandeur they saw around them, although they could not help thinking the actual state of the streets was somewhat of a reproach to the town. they sailed on the yarra-yarra; they went inland and saw, only to marvel at, the grandeur of the scenery, the ferny forests, the glens and hills, the waterfalls and tumbling streams and lovely lakes. and all the time rupert could not get rid of the impression that it was a beautiful dream, from which he would presently awake and find himself at burley old farm. chapter twenty eight. the massacre at findlayson's farm. by the time elsie and rupert had returned from their wanderings winter was once more coming on; but already both the sister and brother had got a complexion. the house was quite furnished now, guest room and all. it was indeed a mansion, though i would not like to say how much money it had cost archie to make it so. however, he had determined, as he said himself to bob, to do the thing properly while he was about it. and there is no doubt he succeeded well. his garden too was all he had depicted it in his letter home. that archie had succeeded to his heart's content in breaking ties with the old country was pretty evident, from a letter received by him from his father about mid-winter. "he had noticed for quite a long time," the squire wrote, "and was getting more and more convinced, that this england was, agriculturally speaking, on its last legs. even american inventions, and american skill and enterprise, had failed to do much for the lands of burley. he had tried everything, but the ground failed to respond. burley was a good place for an old retired man who loved to potter around after the partridges; but for one like himself, still in the prime of his life, it had lost its charms. even archie's mother, he told him, did not see the advisability of throwing good money after bad, and uncle ramsay was of the same way of thinking. so he had made up his mind to let the place and come straight away out. he would allow archie to look out for land for him, and by-and-bye he would come and take possession. australia would henceforth reap the benefit of his genius and example; for he meant to show australians a thing or two." when archie read that letter, he came in with a rush to read it to bob, harry, and sarah. "i think your father is right," said bob. "i tell you, bob, my boy, it isn't father so much as mother. the dear old mummy speaks and breathes through every line and word of this epistle. now i'm off to astonish elsie and roup. come along, bounder." meanwhile findlayson became a regular visitor at the farm. "_why_," archie said to him one evening, as he met him about the outer boundary of the farm, "why, findlayson, my boy, you're getting to be a regular 'sundowner.' well, miss winslow has come, and craig is with us, and as i want to show branson a bit of real australian sport, you had better stop with us a fortnight." "i'll be delighted. i wish i'd brought my fiddle." "we'll send for it if you can't live without it." "not very weel. but i've something to tell you." "well, say on; but you needn't dismount." "yes, i'll speak better down here." findlayson sat up on top of the fence, and at once opened fire by telling archie he had fallen in love with elsie, and had determined to make her his wife. archie certainly was taken aback. "why, findlayson," he said, "you're old enough to be her father." "a' the better, man. and look here, i've been squatting for fifteen years, ever since there was a sheep in the plains almost. i have a nice little nest egg at the bank, and if your sister doesna care to live in the bush we'll tak' a hoose in sydney. for, o man, man, elsie is the bonniest lassie the world e'er saw. she beats the gowan [mountain daisy]." archie laughed. "i must refer you to the lady herself," he said. "of course, man, of course-- "'he either fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small, who dares not put it to the test to win or lose it all.'" so away went findlayson to put his fate to the test. what _he_ said or what _she_ said does not really concern us; but five minutes after his interview archie met the honest scot, and wondrously crestfallen he looked. "she winna hae me," he cried, "but _nil desperandum_, that'll be my motto till the happy day." the next fortnight was in a great measure given up to pleasure and sport. both branson and bounder received their baptism of fire, though the great newfoundland was wondrously exercised in his mind as to what a kangaroo was, and what it was not. as to the dingoes, he arrived at a conclusion very speedily. they could beat him at a race, however; but when bounder one time got two of them together, he proved to everybody's satisfaction that there was life in the old dog yet. gentleman craig never appeared to such excellent advantage anywhere as in ladies' society. he really led the conversation at the dinner-table, though not appearing to do so, but rather the reverse, while in the drawing-room he was the moving spirit. he also managed to make findlayson happy after a way. the scotchman had told craig all his troubles, but craig brought him his fiddle, on which he was a really excellent performer. "rouse out, mr findlayson, and join the ladies at the piano." "but, man," the squatter replied, "my heart's no in it; my heart is broken. i can play slow music, but when it comes to quick, it goes hard against the grain." nevertheless, findlayson took his stand beside the piano, and the ice thus being broken, he played every night, though it must be confessed, for truth's sake, he never refused a "cogie" when the bottle came round his way. towards ten o'clock findlayson used, therefore, to become somewhat sentimental. the gentleman sat up for a wee half hour after the ladies retired, and sometimes findlayson would seize his fiddle. "gentlemen," he would say, "here is how i feel." then he would play a lament or a wail with such feeling that even his listeners would be affected, while sometimes the tears would be quivering on the performer's eyelashes. at the end of the fortnight findlayson went to brisbane. he had some mysterious business to transact, the nature of which he refused to tell even archie. but it was rumoured that a week or two later on, drays laden with furniture were seen to pass along the tracks on their way to findlayson's farm. poor fellow, he was evidently badly hit. he was very much in love indeed, and, like a drowning man, he clutched at straws. the refurnishing of his house was one of these straws. findlayson was going to give "a week's fun," as he phrased it. he was determined, after having seen archie's new house, that his own should rival and even outshine it in splendour. and he really was insane enough to believe that if elsie only once saw the charming house he owned, with the wild and beautiful scenery all around it, she would alter her mind, and look more favourably on his suit. in giving way to vain imaginings of this kind, findlayson was really ignoring, or forgetting at all events, the sentiments of his own favourite poet, burns, as impressed in the following touching lines: "it ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, that bought contentment, peace, or pleasure; the bands and bliss o' mutual love, o that's the chiefest warld's treasure!" his sister was very straightforward, and at once put her brother down as a wee bit daft. perhaps he really was; only the old saying is a true one: "those that are in love are like no one else." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was the last month of winter, when early one morning a gay party from burley new farm set out to visit findlayson, and spend a week or two in order to "'liven him up," as harry expressed it. bob was not particularly fond of going much from home--besides, winslow and he were planning some extensions--so he stopped on the station. but harry went, and, as before, when going to the kangaroo hunt, gentleman craig was in the cavalcade, and of course rupert and elsie. it would have been no very difficult matter to have done the journey in a single day, only archie was desirous of letting his brother and sister have a taste of camping out in the bush. they chose the same route as before, and encamped at night in the self-same place. the evening too was spent in much the same way, even to singing and story-telling, and craig's lullaby to baby, when she and elsie had gone to their tent. morning dawned at last on forest and plain, and both harry and the brothers were early astir. it would have been impossible to remain asleep much after daybreak, owing to the noise of the birds, including the occasional ear-splitting clatter of the laughing jackasses. besides, towards morning it had been exceedingly cold. the first thing that greeted their eyes was a thorough old-fashioned hoar frost, the like of which archie had not seen for many a year. everything gleamed, white almost as coral. the grass itself was a sight to see, and the leaves on the trees were edged with lace. but up mounted the sun, and all was speedily changed. leaves grew brightly green again, and the hoar frost was turned into glancing, gleaming, rainbow-coloured drops of dew. the young men ran merrily away to the pool in the creek, and most effectually scared the ducks. the breakfast to-day was a different sort of a meal to the morsel of stiff damper and corned junk that had been partaken of at last bivouac. elsie made the tea, and etheldene and she presided. the meat pies and patties were excellent, and everyone was in the highest possible spirits, and joyously merry. alas! and alas! this was a breakfast no one who sat down to, and who lives, is ever likely to forget. have you ever, reader, been startled on a bright sunshiny summer's day by a thunder peal? and have you seen the clouds rapidly bank up after this and obscure the sky, darkness brooding over the windless landscape, lighted up every moment by the blinding lightning's flash, and gloom and danger brooding all round, where but a short half hour ago the birds carolled in sunlight? then will you be able, in some measure, to understand the terribleness of the situation in which an hour or two after breakfast the party found themselves, and the awful suddenness of the shock that for a time quite paralysed every member of it. they had left the dismal depths of the forest, and were out on the open pasture land, and nearing findlayson's house, when craig and archie, riding on in front, came upon the well-known bobtailed collie, who was the almost constant companion of the squatter. the dog was alive, but dying. there was a terrible spear-gash in his neck. craig dismounted and knelt beside him. the poor brute knew him, wagged his inch-long tail, licked the hand that caressed him, and almost immediately expired. craig immediately rode back to the others. "do not be alarmed, ladies," he said. "but i fear the worst. there is no smoke in findlayson's chimney. the black fellows have killed his dog." though both girls grew pale, there were no other signs of fear manifested by them. if young australia could be brave, so could old england. the men consulted hurriedly, and it was agreed that while branson and harry waited with the ladies, archie and craig should ride on towards the house. not a sign of life; no, not one. signs enough of death though, signs enough of an awful struggle. it was all very plain and simple, though all very, very sad and dreadful. here in the courtyard lay several dead natives, festering and sweltering in the noonday sun. here were the boomerangs and spears that had fallen from their hands as they dropped never to rise again. here was the door battered and splintered and beaten in with tomahawks, and just inside, in the passage, lay the bodies of hurricane bill and poor findlayson, hacked about almost beyond recognition. in the rooms all was confusion, every place had been ransacked. the furniture, all new and elegant, smashed and riven; the very piano that the honest scot had bought for sake of elsie had been dissected, and its keys carried away for ornaments. in an inner room, half-dressed, were findlayson's sister and her little scotch maid, their arms broken, as if they had held them up to beseech for mercy from the monsters who had attacked them. their arms were broken, and their skulls beaten in, their white night-dresses drenched in blood. there was blood, blood everywhere--in curdled streams, in great liver-like gouts, and in dark pools on the floor. in the kitchen were many more bodies of white men (the shepherds), and of the fiends in human form with whom they had struggled for their lives. it was an awful and sickening sight. no need for craig or archie to tell the news when they returned to the others. their very silence and sadness told the terrible tale. nothing could be done at present, however, in the way of punishing the murderers, who by this time must be far away in their mountain fastnesses. they must ride back, and at once too, in order to warn the people at burley and round about of their great danger. so the return journey was commenced at once. on riding through the forest they had to observe the greatest caution. craig was an old bushman, and knew the ways of the blacks well. he trotted on in front. and whenever in any thicket, where an ambush might possibly be lurking, he saw no sign of bird or beast, he dismounted and, revolver in hand, examined the place before he permitted the others to come on. they got through the forest and out of the gloom at last, and some hours afterwards dismounted a long way down the creek to water the horses and let them browse. as for themselves, no one thought of eating. there was that feeling of weight at every heart one experiences when first awakening from some dreadful nightmare. they talked about the massacre, as they sat under the shadow of a gum tree, almost in whispers; and at the slightest unusual noise the men grasped their revolvers and listened. they were just about to resume their journey when the distant sound of galloping horses fell on their ears. their own nags neighed. all sprang to their feet, and next moment some eight or nine men rode into the clearing. most of them were known to craig, so he advanced to meet them. "ah! i see you know the worst," said the leader. "yes," said craig, "we know." "we've been to your place. it is all right there with one exception." "one exception?" "yes; it's only the kid--mr cooper's little daughter, you know." "is she dead?" cried archie aghast. "no, sir; that is, it isn't likely. mr cooper's black girl left last night, and took the child." "good heavens! our little diana! poor bob! he will go raving mad!" "he is mad, sir, or all but, already; but we've left some fellows to defend the station, and taken to the trail as you see." "craig," said archie, "we must go too." "well," said the first speaker, "the coast is all clear betwixt here and burley. two must return there with the ladies. i advise you to make your choice, and lose no time." it was finally arranged that branson and one of the newcomers should form the escort; and so archie, harry, and craig bade the girls a hurried adieu, and speedily rode away after the men. chapter twenty nine. on the war trail. twelve men all told to march against a tribe consisting probably of over a hundred and fifty warriors, armed for the fight, and intoxicated with their recent success! it was a rash, an almost mad, venture; but they did not for one moment dream of drawing back. they would trust to their own superior skill to beat the enemy; trust to that fortune that so often favours the brave; trusting--many of them i hope--to that merciful providence who protects the weak, and who, in our greatest hour of need, does not refuse to listen to our pleadings. they had ridden some little way in silence, when suddenly archie drew rein. "halt, men!" he cried. "halt for a moment and deliberate. who is to be the commander of this little force?" "yourself," said gentleman craig, lifting his hat. "you are boss of burley farm, and mr cooper's dearest friend." "hear, hear!" cried several of the others. "perhaps it is best," said archie, after a moment's thoughtful pause, "that i should take the leadership under the circumstances. but, craig, i choose you as my second in command, and one whose counsel i will respect and be guided by." "thank you," said craig; "and to begin with, i move we go straight back to findlayson's farm. we are not too well armed, nor too well provisioned." the proposal was at once adopted, and towards sundown they had once more reached the outlying pastures. they were dismounting to enter, when the half-naked figure of a black suddenly appeared from behind the storehouse. a gun or two was levelled at him at once. "stay," cried craig. "do not fire. that is jacoby, the black stockman, and one of poor mr findlayson's chief men. ha, jacoby, advance my lad, and tell us all you know." jacoby's answer was couched in such unintelligible jargon--a mixture of bush-english and broad scotch--that i will not try the reader's patience by giving it verbatim. he was terribly excited, and looked heartbroken with grief. he had but recently come home, having passed "plenty black fellows" on the road. they had attempted to kill him, but here he was. "could he track them?" "yes, easily. they had gone away _there_." he pointed north and east as he spoke. "this is strange," said craig. "men, if what jacoby tells us be correct, instead of retreating to their homes in the wilderness, the blacks are doubling round; and if so, it must be their intention to commit more of their diabolical deeds, so there is no time to be lost." it was determined first to bury their dear friends; and very soon a grave was dug--a huge rough hole, that was all--and in it the murdered whites were laid side by side. rupert repeated the burial-service, or as much of it as he could remember; then the rude grave was filled, and as the earth fell over the chest of poor old-fashioned findlayson, and archie thought of all his droll and innocent ways, tears trickled over his face that he made no attempt to hide. the men hauled the gates of a paddock off its hinges, and piled wood upon that, so that the wandering dingoes, with their friends the rooks, should be baulked in their attempts to gorge upon the dead. the blacks had evidently commenced to ransack the stores; but for some reason or another had gone and left them mostly untouched. here were gunpowder and cartridges in abundance, and many dainty, easily-carried foods, such as tinned meats and fish, that the unhappy owner had evidently laid in for his friends. so enough of everything was packed away in the men's pockets or bags, and they were soon ready once more for the road. the horses must rest, however; for these formed the mainstay of the little expedition. the men too could not keep on all night without a pause; so archie and craig consulted, and it was agreed to bivouac for a few hours, then resume the journey when the moon should rise. meanwhile the sun went down behind the dark and distant wooded hills, that in their strange shapes almost resembled the horizon seen at sea when the waves are high and stormy. between the place where archie and his brother stood and the light, all was rugged plain and forest land, but soon the whole assumed a shade of almost blackness, and the nearest trees stood up weird and spectre-like against the sky's strange hue. towards the horizon to-night there was a deep saffron or orange fading above into a kind of pure grey or opal hue, with over it all a light blush of red, and hurrying away to the south, impelled by some air-current not felt below, was a mighty host of little cloudlets of every colour, from darkest purple to golden-red and crimson. there was now and then the bleating of sheep--sheep without a shepherd-- and a slight tinkle-tinkle, as of a bell. it was in reality the voice of a strange bird, often to be found in the neighbourhood of creeks and pools. hardly any other sound at present fell on the ear. by-and-bye the hurrying clouds got paler, and the orange left the horizon, and stars began to twinkle in the east. "come out here a little way with me," said rupert, taking archie by the hand. when they had gone some little distance, quite out of hearing of the camp, rupert spoke: "do you mind kneeling down here," he said, "to pray, archie?" "you good old rupert, no," was the reply. perhaps no more simple, earnest, or heart-felt prayer was ever breathed under such circumstances, or in such a place. and not only was rupert earnest, but he was confident. he spoke to the great father as to a friend whom he had long, long known, and one whom he could trust to do all for the best. he prayed for protection, he prayed for help for the speedy restoration of the stolen child, and he even prayed for the tribe they soon hoped to meet in conflict--prayed that the god who moves in so mysterious a way to perform his wonders would bless the present affliction to the white man, and even to the misguided black. oh, what a beautiful religion is ours--the religion of love--the religion taught by the lips of the mild and gentle jesus! when they rose from their knees they once more looked skywards at the stars, for they were brightly shining now; then hand-in-hand, as they had come, the brothers returned to the camp. no log fire was lit to-night. the men just lay down to sleep rolled in their blankets, with their arms close by their saddle pillows, two being told off to walk sentry in case of a sudden surprise. even the horses were put in an enclosure, lest they might roam too far away. about twelve o'clock archie awoke from an uneasy dreamful slumber, and looked about him. his attention was speedily attracted to what seemed a huge fire blazing luridly behind the hills, and lighting up the haze above with its gleams. was the forest on fire again? no; it was only moonrise over the woods. he awakened craig, and soon the little camp was all astir, and ready for the road. jacoby was to act as guide. no indian from the wild west of america could be a better tracker. but even before he started he told craig the task would be an easy one, for the black fellows had drunk plenty, and had taken plenty rum with them. they would not go far, he thought, and there was a probability that they would meet some of the band returning. even in the moonlight jacoby followed the trail easily and rapidly. it took them first straight for the forest that had been burned recently--a thoughtless deed on the part of the whites, that probably led to all this sad trouble. there was evidence here that the blacks had gone into camp on the very night of the massacre, and had held a corroboree, which could only have been a day or two ago. there were the remains of the camp fires and the trampled ground and broken branches, with no attempt at concealment. there was a chance that even now they might not be far away, and that the little band might come up with them ere they had started for the day. but if they ventured to hope so, they were doomed to disappointment. morning broke at last lazily over the woods, and with but a brief interval they followed up the trail, and so on and on all that day, till far into the afternoon, when for a brief moment only jacoby found himself puzzled, having fallen in with another trail leading south and west from the main track. he soon, however, discovered that the new trail must be that of some band who had joined the findlayson farm raiders. it became painfully evident soon after that this was the correct solution, for, going backwards some little way, archie found a child's shoe--one of a crimson pair that bob had bought in brisbane for his little diana. "god help her, poor darling!" said archie reverently, as he placed the little shoe in his breast pocket. when he returned he held it up for a moment before the men, and the scowl of anger that crossed their faces, and the firmer clutch they took of their weapons, showed it would indeed be bad for the blacks when they met these rough pioneers face to face. at sunset supper was partaken of, and camp once more formed, though no fire was lit, cold though it might be before morning. the men were tired, and were sound asleep almost as soon as they lay down; but craig, with the brothers, climbed the ridge of the hill to look about them soon after it grew dark. the camp rested at the entrance of a wild gully, a view of which could be had, darkling away towards the east, from the hill on which the three friends now found themselves. presently rupert spoke. "archie," he said, "in this land of contrarieties does the moon sometimes rise in the south?" "not quite," replied archie. "look, then. what is that reflection over yonder?" craig and archie both caught sight of it at the same time. "by saint george and merry england!" craig cried exultingly, "that is the camp of the blacks. now to find diana's other shoe, and the dear child herself wearing it. now for revenge!" "nay," said rupert, "call it _justice_, craig." "what you will; but let us hurry down." they stayed but for a moment more to take their bearings. the fire gleams pointed to a spot to the south-east, on high ground, and right above the gully, and they had a background of trees, not the sky. it was evident then that the enemy was encamped in a little clearing on a forest tableland; and if they meant to save the child's life--if indeed she was not already dead--the greatest caution would be necessary. they speedily descended, and a consultation being held, it was resolved to commence operations as soon as the moon should rise; but meanwhile to creep in the darkness as near to the camp as possible. but first jacoby was sent out to reconnoitre. no cat, no flying squirrel could glide more noiselessly through an australian forest than this faithful fellow. still he seemed an unconsciously long time gone. just as craig and archie were getting seriously uneasy the tinkle, tinkle of the bell-bird was heard. this was the signal agreed upon, and presently after, jacoby himself came silently into their midst. "the child?" was archie's first question. "baal mumhill piccaninny, belong a you. pidney you." "the child is safe," said craig, after asking a few more questions of this scotch myell black. "safe? and they are holding a corroboree and drinking. there is little time to lose. they may sacrifice the infant at any time." craig struck a light as he spoke, and every man examined his arms. "the moon will rise in an hour. let us go on. silent as death, men! do not overturn a stone or break a twig, or the poor baby's life will be sacrificed in a moment." they now advanced slowly and cautiously, guided by jacoby, and at length lay down almost within pistol-shot of the place where the horrid corroboree was going on. considering the noise--the shrieking, the clashing of arms, the rude chanting of songs, and awful din, of the dancers and actors in this ugly drama--to maintain silence might have seemed unnecessary; but these blacks have ears like wolves, and, in a lull of even half a second, would be sharp to hear the faintest unusual noise. craig and archie, however, crept on till they came within sight of the ceremonies. at another time it might have been interesting to watch the hideous grotesqueness of that awful war-dance, but other thoughts were in their minds at present--they were looking everywhere for diana. presently the wild, naked, dancing blacks surged backwards, and, asleep in the arms of a horrid gin, they discovered bob's darling child. it was well bob himself was not here or all would quickly have been lost. all was nearly lost as it was; for suddenly archie inadvertently snapped a twig. in a moment there was silence, except for the barking of a dog. craig raised his voice, and gave vent to a scream so wild and unearthly that even archie was startled. at once all was confusion among the blacks. whether they had taken it for the yell of bunyip or not may never be known, but they prepared to fly. the gin carrying diana threw down the frightened child. a black raised his arm to brain the little toddler. he fell dead instead. craig's aim had been a steady one. almost immediately after a volley or two completed the rout, and the blacks fled yelling into the forest. diana was saved! this was better than revenge; for not a hair of her bonnie wee head had been injured, so to speak, and she still wore the one little red-morocco shoe. there was not a man there who did not catch that child up in his arms and kiss her, some giving vent to their feelings in wild words of thankfulness to god in heaven, while the tears came dripping over their hardy, sun-browned cheeks. chapter thirty. chest to chest with savages--how it all ended. no one thought of sleeping again that night. they went back for their horses, and, as the moon had now risen, commenced the journey in a bee line, as far as that was possible, towards burley new farm. they travelled on all night, still under the guidance of jacoby, who needed no blazed trees to show in which direction to go. but when morning came rest became imperative, for the men were beginning to nod in their saddles, and the horses too seemed to be falling asleep on their feet, for several had stumbled and thrown their half-senseless riders. so camp was now formed and breakfast discussed, and almost immediately all save a sentry went off into sound and dreamless slumber, diana lying close to craig, whom she was very fond of, with her head on his great shoulder and her fingers firmly entwined in his beard. it was hard upon the one poor fellow who had to act as sentry. do what he might he could scarcely keep awake, and he was far too tired to continue walking about. he went and leant his body against a tree, and in this position, what with the heat of the day, and the drowsy hum of insects, with the monotonous song of the grasshopper, again and again he felt himself merging into the land of dreams. then he would start and shake himself, and take a turn or two in the sunshine, then go back to the tree and nod as before. the day wore on, the sun got higher and higher, and about noon, just when the sentry was thinking or rather dreaming of waking the sleepers, there was a wild shout from a neighbouring thicket, a spear flew past him and stuck in the tree. next moment there was a terrible _melee_--a hand-to-hand fight with savages that lasted for long minutes, but finally resulted in victory for the squatters. but, alas! it was a dearly-bought victory. three out of the twelve were dead, and three more, including gentleman craig, grievously wounded. the rest followed up the blacks for some little way, and more than one of them bit the dust. then they returned to help their fellows. craig's was a spear wound through the side, none the less dangerous in that hardly a drop of blood was lost externally. they drew the killed in under a tree, and having bound up the wounds of the others, and partly carrying them or helping them along, they resumed the march. all that day they dragged themselves along, and it was far into the early hours of morning ere they reached the boundaries of burley new farm. the moon was shining, though not very brightly, light fleecy clouds were driving rapidly across the sky, so they could see the lights in both the old house and in the lower windows of archie's own dwelling. they fired guns and coo-ee-ed, and presently bob and winslow rushed out to bid them welcome. diana went bounding away to meet him. "oh, daddy, daddy!" she exclaimed, "what a time we've been having! but mind, daddy, it wasn't all fun." bob could not speak for the life of him. he just staggered in with the child in his arms and handed her over to sarah; but i leave the reader to imagine the state of sarah's feelings now. poor craig was borne in and put to bed in archie's guest room, and there he lay for weeks. bob himself had gone to brisbane to import a surgeon, regardless of expense; but it was probably more owing to the tender nursing of elsie than anything else that craig was able at length to crawl out and breathe the balmy, flower-scented air in the verandah. one afternoon, many weeks after this, craig was lying on a bank, under the shade of a tree, in a beautiful part of the forest, all in whitest bloom, and elsie was seated near him. there had been silence for some time, and the girl was quietly reading. "i wonder," said craig at last; "if my life is really worth the care that you and all the good people here have lavished on me?" "how can you speak thus?" said elsie, letting her book drop in her lap, and looking into his face with those clear, blue eyes of hers. "if you only knew all my sad, sinful story, you would not wonder that i speak thus." "tell me your story: may i not hear it?" "it is so long and, pardon me, so melancholy." "never mind, i will listen attentively." then craig commenced. he told her all the strange history of his early demon-haunted life, about his recklessness, about his struggles and his final victory over self. he told her he verily did believe that his mother's spirit was near him that night in the forest when he made the vow which providence in his mercy had enabled him to keep. yes, it was a long story. the sun had gone down ere he had finished, a crescent moon had appeared in the southern sky, and stars had come out. there was sweetness and beauty everywhere. there was calm in craig's soul now. for he had told elsie something besides. he had told her that he had loved her from the first moment he had seen her, and he had asked her in simple language to become his wife--to be his guardian angel. that same evening, when archie came out into the garden, he found elsie still sitting by craig's couch, but her hand was clasped in his. then archie knew all, and a great, big sigh of relief escaped him, for until this very moment he had been of opinion that craig loved etheldene. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ in course of a few months squire broadbent was as good as his word. he came out to the new land to give the australians the benefit of his genius in the farming way; to teach young australia a thing or two it had not known before; so at least _he_ thought. with him came mrs broadbent, and even uncle ramsay, and the day of their arrival at brisbane was surely a red-letter day in the annals of that thriving and prosperous place. strange to say, however, none of the squatters from the bush, none of the speculating men, nor anybody else apparently, were very much inclined to be lectured about their own country, and the right and wrong way of doing things, by a squire from the old country, who had never been here before. some of them were even rude enough to laugh in his face, but the squire was not offended a bit. he was on far too good terms with himself for that, and too sure that he was in the right in all he said. he told some of these bush farmers that if _they_ did not choose to learn a wrinkle or two from him _he_ was not the loser, with much more to the same purpose, all of which had about the same effect on his hearers that rain has on a duck's back. to use a rather hackneyed phrase, squire broadbent had the courage of his convictions. he settled quietly down at burley new farm, and commenced to study bush-life in all its bearings. it soon began to dawn upon him that australia was getting to be a great country, that she had a great future before her, and that he--squire broadbent--would be connected with it. he was in no great hurry to invest, though eventually he would. it would be better to wait and watch. there was room enough and to spare for all at archie's house, and that all included honest uncle ramsay of course. he and winslow resumed acquaintance, and in the blunt, straightforward ways of the man even squire broadbent found a deal to admire and even to marvel at. "he is a clever man," said the squire to his brother; "a clever man and a far-seeing. he gets a wonderful grasp of financial matters in a moment. depend upon it, brother, he is the right metal, and it is upon solid stones like him that the future greatness of a nation should be founded." uncle ramsay said he himself did not know much about it. he knew more about ships, and was quite content to settle down at brisbane, and keep a morsel of a -tonner. that was his ambition. what a delight it was for archie to have them all round his breakfast-table in the green parlour at burley new form, or seated out in the verandah all so homelike and happy. his dear old mummy too, with her innocent womanly ways, delighted with all she saw, yet half afraid of almost everything--half afraid the monster gum trees would fall upon her when out in the forest; half afraid to put her feet firmly to the ground when walking, but gathering up her skirts gingerly, and thinking every withered branch was a snake; half afraid the howling dingoes would come down in force at night, as wild wolves do on russian wastes, and kill and eat everybody; half afraid of the most ordinary good-natured-looking black fellow; half afraid of even the pet kangaroo when he hopped round and held up his chin to have his old-fashioned neck stroked; half afraid--but happy, so happy nevertheless, because she had all she loved around her. gentleman craig was most deferential and attentive to mrs broadbent, and she could not help admiring him--indeed, no one could--and quite approved of elsie's choice; though, mother-like, she thought the girl far too young to marry yet, as the song says. however, they were not to be married yet quite. there was a year to elapse, and a busy one it was. first and foremost, craig took the unfortunate findlayson's farm. but the old steading was allowed to go to decay, and some one told me the other day that there is now a genuine ghost, said to be seen on moonlight nights, wandering round the ruined pile. anyhow, its associations were of far too terrible a character for craig to think of building near it. he chose the site for his house and outbuildings near the creek and the spot where they had bivouacked before the murder was discovered. it was near here too that craig had made his firm resolve to be a free man-- made it and kept it. the spot was charmingly beautiful too; and as his district included a large portion of the forest, he commenced clearing that, but in so scientific and tasteful a manner that it looked, when finished, like a noble park. during this year squire broadbent also became a squatter. from squire to squatter may sound to some like a come-down in life; but really broadbent did not think so. he managed to buy out a station immediately adjoining archie's, and when he had got fairly established thereon he told his brother ramsay that fifteen years had tumbled off his shoulders all in a lump--fifteen years of care and trouble, fifteen years of struggle to keep his head above water, and live up to his squiredom. "i'm more contented now by far and away," he told his wife, "than i was in the busy, boastful days before the fire at burley old farm; so, you see, it doesn't take much in this world to make a man happy." rupert did not turn squatter, but missionary. it was a great treat for him to have etheldene to ride with him away out into the bush whenever he heard a tribe had settled down anywhere for a time. etheldene knew all their ways, and between the two of them they no doubt did much good. it is owing to such earnest men as rupert that so great a change has come over the black population, and that so many of them, even as i write, sit humbly at the feet of jesus, clothed and in their right mind. to quote the words of a recent writer: "the war-paints and weapons for fights are seen no more, the awful heathen corroborees have ceased, the females are treated with kindness, and the lamentable cries, accompanied by bodily injuries, when death occurred, have given place to christian sorrow and quiet tears for their departed friends." it came to pass one day that etheldene and archie, towards the end of the year, found themselves riding alone, through scrub and over plain, just as they were that day they were lost. the conversation turned round to rupert's mission. "what a dear, good, young man your brother is, archie!" said the girl. "do you really love him?" "as a brother, yes." "etheldene, have him for a brother, will you?" the rich blood mounted to her cheeks and brow. she cast one half-shy, half-joyful look at archie, and simply murmured, "yes." it was all over in a moment then. etheldene struck her horse lightly across the crest with the handle of her stock whip, and next minute both horses were galloping as if for dear life. when archie told rupert how things had turned out, he only smiled in his quiet manner. "it is a queer way of wooing," he said; "but then you were always a queer fellow, archie, and etheldene is a regular bush baby, as craig calls her. oh, i knew long ago she loved you!" at the year's end then both elsie and etheldene were married, and married, too, at the same church in sydney from which bob led sarah, his blushing bride. it might not have been quite so wild and daft a wedding, but it was a very happy one nevertheless. no one was more free in blessing the wedded couples than old kate. yes, old as she was, she had determined not to be left alone in england. we know how bob spent his honeymoon. how were the new young folks to spend theirs? oh, it was all arranged beforehand! and on the very morning of the double marriage they embarked--harry and bob going with them for a holiday--on board captain vesey's pretty yacht, and sailed away for england. etheldene's dream of romance was about to become a reality; she was not only to visit the land of chivalry, but with archie her husband and hero by her side. the yacht hung off and on the shore all day, as if reluctant to leave the land; but towards evening a breeze sprang up from the west, the sails filled, and away she went, dancing and curtseying over the water like a thing of life. the sunset was bewitchingly beautiful; the green of the land was changed to a purple haze, that softened and beautified its every outline; the cloudless sky was clear and deep; that is, it gave you the idea you could see so far into and through it. there was a flush of saffron along the horizon; above it was of an opal tint, with here and there a tender shade of crimson--only a suspicion of this colour, no more; and apparently close at hand, in the east, were long-drawn cloudlets of richest red and gold. etheldene looked up in her husband's face. "shall we have such a sky as that to greet our arrival on english shores?" she said. archie drew her closer to his side. "i'm not quite sure about the sky," he replied, shaking his head and smiling, "but we'll have a hearty english welcome." and so they had.