Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen

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"No, Marianne, in no possible way."

"And yet this woman--who knows what her art may
have been?--how long it may have been premeditated,
and how deeply contrived by her!--Who is she?--Who can
she be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and
attractive among his female acquaintance?--Oh! no one,
no one--he talked to me only of myself."

Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated,
and it ended thus.

"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama.
Can not we be gone to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, Marianne!"

"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for
Willoughby's sake--and now who cares for me? Who regards me?"

"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe
Mrs. Jennings much more than civility; and civility of
the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that."

"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot
stay here long, I cannot stay to endure the questions
and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and
Palmers--how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such
a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would HE say to that!"

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a
moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease;
and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one
posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical,
her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all,
and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call
for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she
was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from
that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued
on the bed quiet and motionless.

CHAPTER 30

Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return,
and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered,
opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern.

"How do you do my dear?"--said she in a voice of great
compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without
attempting to answer.

"How is she, Miss Dashwood?--Poor thing! she looks very bad.--
No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married
very soon--a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience
with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago,
and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss
Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it;
and I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I,
all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used
a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I
wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.
And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it.
I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever
I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he
has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort,
my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man
in the world worth having; and with your pretty face
you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't
disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry
out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons
luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her."

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room,
as if she supposed her young friend's affliction could
be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister,
determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised
her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could
bear it very well, and the bustle about her would
be less." Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a
moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly
possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more;
and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,
while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready
to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were
summoned to it.

When there, though looking most wretchedly,
she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected.
Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half
Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions
to her, this calmness could not have been maintained;
but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction
of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing
that was passing before her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness,
though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes
almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments,
and returned her those civilities, which her sister could
not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw
that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing
was due to her which might make her at all less so.
She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness
of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of
its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire,
was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house,
and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day.
Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister,
seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained
by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love,
by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire.
As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was
forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could
stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery,
and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got
up and hurried out of the room.

"Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone,
"how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is
not gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried
cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good.
I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would
send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest
thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl
so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side,
and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care
no more about such things!--"

"The lady then--Miss Grey I think you called her--
is very rich?"

"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see
her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome.
I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married
a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together.
Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won't come
before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces.
No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters!
Well, it don't signify talking; but when a young man,
be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl,
and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off
from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer
girl is ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case,
sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants,
and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you,
Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters
came round. But that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the
way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of
this age."

"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is?
Is she said to be amiable?"

"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever
heard her mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say
this morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her,
that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry
to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could
never agree."--

"And who are the Ellisons?"

"Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age
and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has
made!--What now," after pausing a moment--"your poor sister
is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself.
Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear,
it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we
shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little.
What shall we play at? She hates whist I know; but is there
no round game she cares for?"

"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary.
Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her room again
this evening. I shall persuade her if I can to go
early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest."

"Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name
her own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has
been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two,
for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as
long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it!
Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it,
I would not have joked her about it for all my money.
But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made
sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and
you know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord!
how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they
hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called
in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it.
But I shall see them tomorrow."

"It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution
Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby,
or making the slightest allusion to what has passed,
before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out
to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing
about it when she is present; and the less that may ever
be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings
will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe."

"Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible
for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister,
I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her
for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time.
No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are
all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I
give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part,
I think the less that is said about such things, the better,
the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And what does
talking ever do you know?"

"In this affair it can only do harm; more so
perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it
has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake
of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become
the public conversation. I must do THIS justice to
Mr. Willoughby--he has broken no positive engagement
with my sister."

"Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him.
No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all
over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they
were to live in hereafter!"

Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the
subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her
for Willoughby's; since, though Marianne might lose much,
he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth.
After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings,
with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.

"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind,
for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon.
He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me,
now, if they an't married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he'll
chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight.
It will be all to one a better match for your sister.
Two thousand a year without debt or drawback--except
the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her;
but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then
what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can
tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place,
full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great
garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees
in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner!
Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we
were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful
stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing,
in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is
close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from
the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only
go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house,
you may see all the carriages that pass along.
Oh! 'tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village,
and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw.
To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park,
where they are forced to send three miles for their meat,
and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother.
Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can.
One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down.
If we CAN but put Willoughby out of her head!"

"Ay, if we can do THAT, Ma'am," said Elinor,
"we shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon."
And then rising, she went away to join Marianne,
whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning,
in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire,
which, till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.

"You had better leave me," was all the notice
that her sister received from her.

"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go
to bed." But this, from the momentary perverseness
of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do.
Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however,
soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her
lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped,
in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her.

In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired,
she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass,
full of something, in her hand.

"My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected
that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the
house that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it
for your sister. My poor husband! how fond he was of it!
Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said
it did him more good than any thing else in the world.
Do take it to your sister."

"Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference
of the complaints for which it was recommended, "how good
you are! But I have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope,
almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much
service to her as rest, if you will give me leave,
I will drink the wine myself."

Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been
five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise;
and Elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected,
that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present,
of little importance to her, its healing powers,
on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried
on herself as on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea,
and by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne,
Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected
nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he
was already aware of what occasioned her absence.
Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought;
for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room
to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered--
"The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see. He knows
nothing of it; do tell him, my dear."

He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's,
and, with a look which perfectly assured her of his
good information, inquired after her sister.

"Marianne is not well," said she. "She has been
indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed."

"Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I
heard this morning may be--there may be more truth in it
than I could believe possible at first."

"What did you hear?"

"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short,
that a man, whom I KNEW to be engaged--but how shall I
tell you? If you know it already, as surely you must,
I may be spared."

"You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness,
"Mr. Willoughby's marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we DO
know it all. This seems to have been a day of general
elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us.
Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it?"

"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I
had business. Two ladies were waiting for their carriage,
and one of them was giving the other an account of the
intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment,
that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name
of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated,
first caught my attention; and what followed was a positive
assertion that every thing was now finally settled
respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was no longer
to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks,
with many particulars of preparations and other matters.
One thing, especially, I remember, because it served
to identify the man still more:--as soon as the ceremony
was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his seat
in Somersetshire. My astonishment!--but it would be
impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative
lady I learnt, on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop
till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I
have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian."

"It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey
has fifty thousand pounds? In that, if in any thing,
we may find an explanation."

"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least
I think"--he stopped a moment; then added in a voice
which seemed to distrust itself, "And your sister--
how did she--"

"Her sufferings have been very severe. I have
only to hope that they may be proportionately short.
It has been, it is a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday,
I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now,
perhaps--but I am almost convinced that he never was
really attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and,
in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."

"Ah!" said Colonel Brandon, "there is, indeed! But
your sister does not--I think you said so--she does
not consider quite as you do?"

"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly
she would still justify him if she could."

He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal
of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties,
the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had
watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who
expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's communication,
in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon's side,
as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope
and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole
evening more serious and thoughtful than usual.

CHAPTER XXXI

From a night of more sleep than she had expected,
Marianne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness
of misery in which she had closed her eyes.

Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk
of what she felt; and before breakfast was ready, they had
gone through the subject again and again; and with the same
steady conviction and affectionate counsel on Elinor's side,
the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on
Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe
Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself,
and at others, lost every consolation in the impossibility
of acquitting him. At one moment she was absolutely
indifferent to the observation of all the world, at another
she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third
could resist it with energy. In one thing, however,
she was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding,
where it was possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings,
and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it.
Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's
entering into her sorrows with any compassion.

"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried;
"she cannot feel. Her kindness is not sympathy;
her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants
is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it."

Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice
to which her sister was often led in her opinion of others,
by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too
great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a
strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner.
Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there
be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent
abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither
reasonable nor candid. She expected from other people
the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged
of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions
on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the
sisters were together in their own room after breakfast,
which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower
in her estimation; because, through her own weakness,
it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself,
though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse
of the utmost goodwill.

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance
gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort,
she entered their room, saying,

"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure
will do you good."

Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination
placed before her a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness
and contrition, explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory,
convincing; and instantly followed by Willoughby himself,
rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, at her feet,
by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter.
The work of one moment was destroyed by the next.
The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome,
was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment
which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope,
she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within
her reach in her moments of happiest eloquence,
could have expressed; and now she could reproach her
only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with
passionate violence--a reproach, however, so entirely
lost on its object, that after many expressions of pity,
she withdrew, still referring her to the letter of comfort.
But the letter, when she was calm enough to read it,
brought little comfort. Willoughby filled every page.
Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying
as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused
by Elinor's application, to intreat from Marianne greater
openness towards them both; and this, with such tenderness
towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and such
a conviction of their future happiness in each other,
that she wept with agony through the whole of it.

All her impatience to be at home again now returned;
her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through
the very excess of her mistaken confidence in Willoughby,
and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable herself
to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be
in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own
except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known;
and at length she obtained her sister's consent to wait
for that knowledge.

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she
could not be easy till the Middletons and Palmers were able
to grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing
Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest
of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of
the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving,
by Marianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying
any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother
an account of what had passed, and entreat her directions
for the future; while Marianne, who came into the drawing-room
on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table
where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen,
grieving over her for the hardship of such a task,
and grieving still more fondly over its effect on her mother.

In this manner they had continued about a quarter
of an hour, when Marianne, whose nerves could not then
bear any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door.

"Who can this be?" cried Elinor. "So early too! I
thought we HAD been safe."

Marianne moved to the window--

"It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation.
"We are never safe from HIM."

"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home."

"I will not trust to THAT," retreating to her own room.
"A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no
conscience in his intrusion on that of others."

The event proved her conjecture right, though it
was founded on injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon
DID come in; and Elinor, who was convinced that
solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who saw
THAT solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look,
and in his anxious though brief inquiry after her,
could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly.

"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he,
after the first salutation, "and she encouraged me
to come on; and I was the more easily encouraged,
because I thought it probable that I might find you alone,
which I was very desirous of doing. My object--my
wish--my sole wish in desiring it--I hope, I believe
it is--is to be a means of giving comfort;--no, I must
not say comfort--not present comfort--but conviction,
lasting conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for her,
for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it,
by relating some circumstances which nothing but a VERY
sincere regard--nothing but an earnest desire of being
useful--I think I am justified--though where so many hours
have been spent in convincing myself that I am right,
is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?"
He stopped.

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