埃莉诺十分不安地察觉到她朋友情绪低落。他的来访只给她带来极少的满足，而他自己在其中的享受似乎也并不完满。显然他并不快乐；她但愿同样明显的是，他仍像她一度毫不怀疑曾唤起过的那样，对她怀着同样的爱意；但迄今为止，他这份偏爱的延续显得十分不定；他对她态度的矜持，与片刻前更生动的眼神所暗示的意味，恰恰相互矛盾。
次日清晨，在其他人下楼之前，他来到早餐室，与她和玛丽安在一起；玛丽安总是乐于尽己所能促成他们的幸福，不久便留他们单独相处。可她还没上到半楼梯，便听见客厅门开了，转身惊见爱德华自己走了出来。
“我到村里去看看我的马，”他说，“你们还没准备好早餐；我一会儿就回来。”
爱德华回来时，对四周的乡野风光更生赞叹；去村里的路上，他将山谷许多地方尽收眼底；村庄本身所处位置比小屋高得多，可纵览全貌，这使他极为欣喜。这话题稳稳吸引了玛丽安的注意，她正要描摹自己对这些景致的赞叹，并更细致地问他哪些物件格外打动他，爱德华却打断她道：“你别问得太细，玛丽安——别忘了我对画意之美一无所知，若说到具体处，我的无知与缺乏品味定会冒犯你。我会把本应称作险峻的山丘说成陡峭；把本应是不规则而粗犷的地面，说成古怪而拙陋；把本应只在薄雾柔光中显出朦胧的远处景物，说成看不见。你只得满意于我所能坦诚给出的赞叹。我称之为极美的乡野——山丘陡峭，林木似满是良材，山谷看来舒适而安恬——有丰美草甸，几座整洁农舍散落其间。这正合我对美乡野的想望，因它将美与实用合一——我敢说它也是画意盎然的，因你赞赏它；我轻易便能相信其中满是岩石海角、灰藓灌木，但这些于我尽皆虚无。我于画意一无所知。”
“怕是太真了，”玛丽安说，“可你何必以此自夸？”
“我疑心，”埃莉诺说，“爱德华为避一种矫饰，却落入另一种。因他信许多人佯装比真心更赏自然之美，且厌此类虚辞，便在自己观景时，装出比实际更淡漠、更不辨美恶的样子。他苛细，且必要有他自家的矫饰。”
“极是，”玛丽安说，“对山水景致的赞赏已成纯粹行话。人人佯装感受，并竭力以那首位界定画意之美者的品味与优雅去描摹。我厌一切行话，有时便将感受藏于己心，因除却那用烂用俗、尽失意涵的言语，我寻不得语言去形容。”
“我确信，”爱德华说，“你真感你所言赏景之悦。但作为交换，你姊必得容我只感我所言。我喜美景，却非依画意之理。我不喜歪扭枯败之树。若其挺拔直耸、繁茂生气，我更赞赏。我不喜倾颓破敝的村舍。我不爱荨麻、蓟草或石楠之花。相较瞭望塔，我更悦舒适农宅——较之天下最精的匪帮，一队整洁欢欣的村民更得我心。”
玛丽安惊望爱德华，怜望姊姊。埃莉诺只笑。
话题未再续，玛丽安沉静默想，直至一新物骤引其目。她坐爱德华旁，达什伍德夫人递茶时，他手恰过她前，一指上戒指显见，中央编有一缕发。
“我从未见你戴戒指，爱德华，”她叫道，“那是范妮的发？我记得她许诺予你些。但我原以为她发色更深。”
玛丽安脱口而出真心话——及见爱德华多痛，她对自己失言的懊恼亦不亚于他。他深红了脸，瞬瞥埃莉诺，答：“是；是我姊妹的发。你知道，镶托总使它色影不同。”
埃莉诺迎他目，亦露会意。那发是她自己的，她瞬即如玛丽安般确信；二人之判唯别在，玛丽安以为姊姊慨赠，埃莉诺却知必是他不知的窃取或巧取而来。然她无兴视作冒犯，便装未觉，立谈他事，内心却决意此后抓一切机缘细看那发，以绝疑地确证它正与己发同色。
爱德华的窘续了一时，终以更固的失神作结。整上午他尤显沉郁。玛丽安严责己言；然若知姊姊几未见怪，她自恕或更快些。
未至正午，约翰爵士与詹宁斯太太来访，闻小屋至一绅士，特来相看客人。仗岳母之助，约翰爵士不久便探得费拉斯姓以F始——这备下日后嘲埃莉诺之矿，唯因与爱德华初识，未即发。然她仅从极意味的眼色中，知他们依玛格丽特之教所察已深。
约翰爵士访达什伍德家，非邀次日园中餐，即邀今夕茶。此番为妥待客——他自觉当助其乐——故欲二者皆邀。
“你等今宵必来茶，”他说，“因我们甚孤——明你等必来餐，因我们将大聚。”
詹宁斯太太促其必。“谁料你们不起舞，”她说，“那必诱你，玛丽安小姐。”
“舞！”玛丽安叫，“不可能！谁舞？”
“谁！你们自是，与凯里家、惠特克家。——怎！你以为某人——名不可道——去了，便无人能舞！”
“我全心愿，”约翰爵士叫，“威洛比复在我们中。”
此言与玛丽安红颊，新疑爱德华。“威洛比是谁？”他低声问身侧达什伍德小姐。
她简答。玛丽安容色更明。爱德华足窥其意，不仅他者之意，亦前惑其言之玛丽安意；客去，他即绕至她边，低语：“我猜了。告你我的猜么？”
“何意？”
“告你么？”
“自然。”
“然则；我猜威洛比先生好猎。”
玛丽安又惊又乱，却不禁为他静默之黠而笑，默一瞬，说：
“哦，爱德华！怎可？——但时日至，我望…我信你必喜他。”
“我不疑，”他答，颇惊其切其热；因若非以为此乃为益其识 general 之玩笑，仅基于威洛比先生与她间有或无之事，他不敢提及。
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 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.
