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SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 16
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.