Sense and Sensibility
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 villagers
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 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