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SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 19
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."