feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/sparknotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_3_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Sense and Sensibility.chapters 16-19
feat_summary_id: chapters 16-19
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapters 16-19", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section4/", "summary": "Marianne finds herself unable to eat or sleep following Willoughby's sudden departure, yet to her mother's surprise, she also does not appear to be expecting a letter from him. However, when Mrs. Jennings remarks that they have stopped their communal reading of Hamlet since Willoughby's departure, Marianne assures her that she expects Willoughby back within a few weeks. One morning, about a week after Willoughby's departure, the three sisters are out walking when they see a man approach on horseback. Marianne at first thinks it is Willoughby, but the rider turns out to be Edward Ferrars, who is on his way to visit them at Barton. Marianne greets him warmly, but Elinor waits to see how he will act toward them. To both girls' surprise, Edward, though cordial, is much more distant and reserved than they expect a lover to behave. However, Marianne is assured of his affection for Elinor when she notices that he is wearing a locket-like ring that contains a lock of hair; although Edward claims it is Fanny's hair, Marianne remains convinced that it is actually her sister's. Elinor, however, has no recollection of allowing Edward to remove this token of affection. One day during his week-long visit, Edward discusses his prospects with the Dashwoods. He tells them that he has no intention of finding a profession for himself; he prefers to remain an \"idle, helpless being\" in spite of his mother's high expectations of him. Marianne assures him that he does not need wealth or grandeur to be happy, but Elinor protests that wealth has much to do with happiness. The daughters then begin to fantasize about what they would do if each were granted a large fortune: Marianne would purchase all her favorite music and books. However, she hints that she would spend the majority of her fortune on facilitating her marriage to Willoughby. Elinor assures Edward that her sister has remained steadfast in her conviction that a person can only be in love once. This leads to a discussion of character and human nature in which Elinor reminds her sister that it is important to treat all people with civility, but that one should not necessarily adopt their sentiments. After a week of walks, dances, and visits to Sir John's estate at Barton Park, Edward ruefully explains that he must leave them. Elinor tries to account for the brevity of his visit by assuring herself that he must have some task to fulfill for his demanding mother. After he leaves, she tries to occupy herself by working diligently at her drawing table, though she still finds herself thinking frequently of Edward. The arrival of a large party at Barton Cottage interrupts one of her drawing table reveries. Sir John knocks on the casement and announces that along with Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, he has brought his wife's sister and her husband, the Palmers. Mrs. Charlotte Palmer is a lively woman, expecting a child, but her husband sits reading the newspaper throughout the entire visit. Sir John encourages the Dashwood girls to join them for dinner the next day, and they find themselves unfortunately unable to decline his invitation.", "analysis": "Commentary At the beginning of the chapter, Marianne behaves as she believes a disappointed lover ought to act. She cultivates her own grief by reading only what she and Willoughby read together and by singing only their songs at the piano. She makes sure that she does not sleep at all on the first night after his departure and draws her mother and sister into her own gloom. Marianne makes herself and those around her as miserable as possible, unlike Elinor, who conceals her grief from her family; when she believes Edward no longer cares for her, she sits alone at her drawing table in silent thought. One of the governing themes of these chapters is the value of privacy, but also the confusions that result from secrecy and concealment. Since Marianne conceals any sort of understanding that may exist between herself and Willoughby about their status as a couple, Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor can only speculate about their status based on her misery and her remark to Mrs. Jennings about his expected return in a few weeks. Likewise, Elinor does not greet Edward with the warm and open regard of a lover but instead awaits his reactio; but as he is not forthcoming with his own emotions, this tactic leaves her to wonder if his feelings have changed. Marianne finds Edward's reserve puzzling as well. In a further instance of willful concealment, Edward clearly dissembles when he claims that the lock of hair in his ring once belonged to his sister, an echo of Margaret's eager whisper to Elinor that she saw Willoughby remove a lock of Marianne's hair. This preoccupation with secrets is evident also in the behavior of the Palmers: Mrs. Jennings leans towards Elinor and speaks in a low voice to inform her that Mrs. Palmer is pregnant, and Mr. Palmer hides his face behind a newspaper for the duration of their visit. Everyone in these chapters seems bent on concealing their own situation from the eyes of others; the ensuing misunderstandings and ambiguities fuel the plot the novel. The earlier Shakespearean reference to Queen Mab receives a second mention when the Dashwood sisters see a man approaching on horseback during their walk, and Marianne is convinced that it must be her beloved Willoughby. \"Queen Mab\" was the name of the horse that Willoughby was to give her, yet the horse was never more than a dream, for the Dashwoods could not afford such a gift. In this chapter, Marianne's identification of the horse's rider proves to be yet another vain fantasy like Queen Mab's dreams, for it is not Willoughby but Edward Ferrars who rides up to greet them. When Edward first rides up to the Dashwood sisters, he comments on the dirty lanes he had to traverse to reach Barton Cottage. Roads are essential to the action of the novel because they facilitate the connections among characters. Austen structures the novel according to journeys, including the Dashwoods' journey from Norland to Barton, Willoughby's and Edward's journeys to Barton, and Elinor and Marianne's journey to London with Mrs. Jennings. Although Mrs. Dashwood sells their carriage when they leave Norland, the Dashwood sisters are still able to maintain a lively social life because of the journeys that Brandon, Willoughby, Edward, the Palmers, and the Steeles undertake to visit Barton. This prevalence of journeys is significant: in Austen's day, improved roads linked parishes and towns to one another and to the nexus of all connections, London. Austen was thus highly aware of the changes roads could bring to people's lives. In a novel built around attachments and connections, dirty lanes are a feature of the landscape as well as a plot device."}
text: 
  
  Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able
  to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby.  She
  would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next
  morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than
  when she lay down in it.  But the feelings which made such composure a
  disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it.  She was awake the
  whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it.  She got up with a
  headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
  giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all
  attempt at consolation from either.  Her sensibility was potent enough!
  
  When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about
  the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment
  and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.
  
  The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.  She played
  over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,
  every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at
  the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out
  for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be
  gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied.  She spent
  whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice
  often totally suspended by her tears.  In books too, as well as in
  music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and
  present was certain of giving.  She read nothing but what they had been
  used to read together.
  
  Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it
  sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,
  to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,
  still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.
  
  No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.
  Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy.  But Mrs.
  Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at
  least satisfied herself.
  
  "Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our
  letters himself from the post, and carries them to it.  We have already
  agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it
  could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through
  Sir John's hands."
  
  Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a
  motive sufficient for their silence.  But there was one method so
  direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real
  state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she
  could not help suggesting it to her mother.
  
  "Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or she
  is not engaged to Willoughby?  From you, her mother, and so kind, so
  indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.  It would be
  the natural result of your affection for her.  She used to be all
  unreserve, and to you more especially."
  
  "I would not ask such a question for the world.  Supposing it possible
  that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry
  inflict!  At any rate it would be most ungenerous.  I should never
  deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of
  what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.  I know
  Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not
  be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make
  the revealment of it eligible.  I would not attempt to force the
  confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty
  would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."
  
  Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's
  youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common
  care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic
  delicacy.
  
  It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before
  Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were
  not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;--but
  one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of
  Shakespeare, exclaimed,
  
  "We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away
  before we could get through it.  We will put it by, that when he comes
  again...But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens."
  
  "Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise.  "No--nor many weeks."
  
  Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
  pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of
  confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.
  
  One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was
  prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of
  wandering away by herself.  Hitherto she had carefully avoided every
  companion in her rambles.  If her sisters intended to walk on the
  downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the
  valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be
  found when the others set off.  But at length she was secured by the
  exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.
  They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,
  for Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with
  gaining one point, would not then attempt more.  Beyond the entrance of
  the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and
  more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first
  coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they
  stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the
  distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had
  never happened to reach in any of their walks before.
  
  Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;
  it was a man on horseback riding towards them.  In a few minutes they
  could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards
  Marianne rapturously exclaimed,
  
  "It is he; it is indeed;--I know it is!"--and was hastening to meet
  him, when Elinor cried out,
  
  "Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken.  It is not Willoughby.
  The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."
  
  "He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has.  His air, his
  coat, his horse.  I knew how soon he would come."
  
  She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from
  particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,
  quickened her pace and kept up with her.  They were soon within thirty
  yards of the gentleman.  Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within
  her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices
  of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well
  known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she
  turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.
  
  He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be
  forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a
  smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her
  sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.
  
  He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with
  them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.
  
  He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by
  Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than
  even Elinor herself.  To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward
  and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness
  which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.  On
  Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a
  lover ought to look and say on such an occasion.  He was confused,
  seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither
  rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by
  questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.  Marianne
  saw and listened with increasing surprise.  She began almost to feel a
  dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by
  carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a
  contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. 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!"
  
  "Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
  animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary
  happiness.
  
  "We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite
  of the insufficiency of wealth."
  
  "Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be!  I wonder what I
  should do with it!"
  
  Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
  
  "I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.
  Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help."
  
  "You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor, "and
  your difficulties will soon vanish."
  
  "What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," said
  Edward, "in such an event!  What a happy day for booksellers,
  music-sellers, and print-shops!  You, Miss Dashwood, would give a
  general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as
  for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music
  enough in London to content her.  And books!--Thomson, Cowper,
  Scott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up
  every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;
  and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old
  twisted tree.  Should not you, Marianne?  Forgive me, if I am very
  saucy.  But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old
  disputes."
  
  "I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy or
  gay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking of
  former times.  You are very right in supposing how my money would be
  spent--some of it, at least--my loose cash would certainly be employed
  in improving my collection of music and books."
  
  "And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
  authors or their heirs."
  
  "No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it."
  
  "Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
  wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever
  be in love more than once in their life--your opinion on that point is
  unchanged, I presume?"
  
  "Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.  It is
  not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."
  
  "Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not
  at all altered."
  
  "She is only grown a little more grave than she was."
  
  "Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me.  You are not
  very gay yourself."
  
  "Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh.  "But gaiety never
  was a part of MY character."
  
  "Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should hardly
  call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all she
  does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but she
  is not often really merry."
  
  "I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her
  down as a lively girl."
  
  "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said
  Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or
  other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or
  stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the
  deception originated.  Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
  themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,
  without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge."
  
  "But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided
  wholly by the opinion of other people.  I thought our judgments were
  given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours.  This has
  always been your doctrine, I am sure."
  
  "No, Marianne, never.  My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of
  the understanding.  All I have ever attempted to influence has been the
  behaviour.  You must not confound my meaning.  I am guilty, I confess,
  of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with
  greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their
  sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"
  
  "You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of
  general civility," said Edward to Elinor.  "Do you gain no ground?"
  
  "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.
  
  "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I
  am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.  I never wish to
  offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I
  am only kept back by my natural awkwardness.  I have frequently thought
  that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I
  am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"
  
  "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said
  Elinor.
  
  "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.
  "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or
  other.  If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy
  and graceful, I should not be shy."
  
  "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse."
  
  Edward started--"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"
  
  "Yes, very."
  
  "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring.  "Reserved!--how, in
  what manner?  What am I to tell you?  What can you suppose?"
  
  Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
  subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to
  understand what she means?  Do not you know she calls every one
  reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as
  rapturously as herself?"
  
  Edward made no answer.  His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him
  in their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.
  
  
  
  
  Elinor 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
  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.
  
  
  
  
  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."
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapters 16-19
target: Marianne finds herself unable to eat or sleep following Willoughby's sudden departure, yet to her mother's surprise, she also does not appear to be expecting a letter from him. However, when Mrs. Jennings remarks that they have stopped their communal reading of Hamlet since Willoughby's departure, Marianne assures her that she expects Willoughby back within a few weeks. One morning, about a week after Willoughby's departure, the three sisters are out walking when they see a man approach on horseback. Marianne at first thinks it is Willoughby, but the rider turns out to be Edward Ferrars, who is on his way to visit them at Barton. Marianne greets him warmly, but Elinor waits to see how he will act toward them. To both girls' surprise, Edward, though cordial, is much more distant and reserved than they expect a lover to behave. However, Marianne is assured of his affection for Elinor when she notices that he is wearing a locket-like ring that contains a lock of hair; although Edward claims it is Fanny's hair, Marianne remains convinced that it is actually her sister's. Elinor, however, has no recollection of allowing Edward to remove this token of affection. One day during his week-long visit, Edward discusses his prospects with the Dashwoods. He tells them that he has no intention of finding a profession for himself; he prefers to remain an "idle, helpless being" in spite of his mother's high expectations of him. Marianne assures him that he does not need wealth or grandeur to be happy, but Elinor protests that wealth has much to do with happiness. The daughters then begin to fantasize about what they would do if each were granted a large fortune: Marianne would purchase all her favorite music and books. However, she hints that she would spend the majority of her fortune on facilitating her marriage to Willoughby. Elinor assures Edward that her sister has remained steadfast in her conviction that a person can only be in love once. This leads to a discussion of character and human nature in which Elinor reminds her sister that it is important to treat all people with civility, but that one should not necessarily adopt their sentiments. After a week of walks, dances, and visits to Sir John's estate at Barton Park, Edward ruefully explains that he must leave them. Elinor tries to account for the brevity of his visit by assuring herself that he must have some task to fulfill for his demanding mother. After he leaves, she tries to occupy herself by working diligently at her drawing table, though she still finds herself thinking frequently of Edward. The arrival of a large party at Barton Cottage interrupts one of her drawing table reveries. Sir John knocks on the casement and announces that along with Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, he has brought his wife's sister and her husband, the Palmers. Mrs. Charlotte Palmer is a lively woman, expecting a child, but her husband sits reading the newspaper throughout the entire visit. Sir John encourages the Dashwood girls to join them for dinner the next day, and they find themselves unfortunately unable to decline his invitation.
feat_summary_analysis: Commentary At the beginning of the chapter, Marianne behaves as she believes a disappointed lover ought to act. She cultivates her own grief by reading only what she and Willoughby read together and by singing only their songs at the piano. She makes sure that she does not sleep at all on the first night after his departure and draws her mother and sister into her own gloom. Marianne makes herself and those around her as miserable as possible, unlike Elinor, who conceals her grief from her family; when she believes Edward no longer cares for her, she sits alone at her drawing table in silent thought. One of the governing themes of these chapters is the value of privacy, but also the confusions that result from secrecy and concealment. Since Marianne conceals any sort of understanding that may exist between herself and Willoughby about their status as a couple, Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor can only speculate about their status based on her misery and her remark to Mrs. Jennings about his expected return in a few weeks. Likewise, Elinor does not greet Edward with the warm and open regard of a lover but instead awaits his reactio; but as he is not forthcoming with his own emotions, this tactic leaves her to wonder if his feelings have changed. Marianne finds Edward's reserve puzzling as well. In a further instance of willful concealment, Edward clearly dissembles when he claims that the lock of hair in his ring once belonged to his sister, an echo of Margaret's eager whisper to Elinor that she saw Willoughby remove a lock of Marianne's hair. This preoccupation with secrets is evident also in the behavior of the Palmers: Mrs. Jennings leans towards Elinor and speaks in a low voice to inform her that Mrs. Palmer is pregnant, and Mr. Palmer hides his face behind a newspaper for the duration of their visit. Everyone in these chapters seems bent on concealing their own situation from the eyes of others; the ensuing misunderstandings and ambiguities fuel the plot the novel. The earlier Shakespearean reference to Queen Mab receives a second mention when the Dashwood sisters see a man approaching on horseback during their walk, and Marianne is convinced that it must be her beloved Willoughby. "Queen Mab" was the name of the horse that Willoughby was to give her, yet the horse was never more than a dream, for the Dashwoods could not afford such a gift. In this chapter, Marianne's identification of the horse's rider proves to be yet another vain fantasy like Queen Mab's dreams, for it is not Willoughby but Edward Ferrars who rides up to greet them. When Edward first rides up to the Dashwood sisters, he comments on the dirty lanes he had to traverse to reach Barton Cottage. Roads are essential to the action of the novel because they facilitate the connections among characters. Austen structures the novel according to journeys, including the Dashwoods' journey from Norland to Barton, Willoughby's and Edward's journeys to Barton, and Elinor and Marianne's journey to London with Mrs. Jennings. Although Mrs. Dashwood sells their carriage when they leave Norland, the Dashwood sisters are still able to maintain a lively social life because of the journeys that Brandon, Willoughby, Edward, the Palmers, and the Steeles undertake to visit Barton. This prevalence of journeys is significant: in Austen's day, improved roads linked parishes and towns to one another and to the nexus of all connections, London. Austen was thus highly aware of the changes roads could bring to people's lives. In a novel built around attachments and connections, dirty lanes are a feature of the landscape as well as a plot device.