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.

      a

Chapter 17

      M

      rs. 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!”