CHAPTER V

f 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 thoroughcontentment 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 to-morrow."

But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jenning'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

melancholymeditation. 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 openlycorrespond, 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 to-day, 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.
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