CHAPTER XVIII

linor 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 to 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.
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