CHAPTER XXVII.
“If this open weather holds much longer,” said Mrs. Jennings, when they
met at breakfast the following morning, “Sir John will not like leaving
Barton next week; ’tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day’s pleasure.
Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much
to heart.”
“That is true,” cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the
window as she spoke, to examine the day. “I had not thought of that. This
weather will keep many sportsmen in the country.”
It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it. “It is
charming weather for them indeed,” she continued, as she sat down to the
breakfast table with a happy countenance. “How much they must enjoy it!
But” (with a little return of anxiety) “it cannot be expected to last long. At
this time of the year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have
very little more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with
severity. In another day or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly
last longer—nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight!”
“At any rate,” said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from seeing
her sister’s thoughts as clearly as she did, “I dare say we shall have Sir John
and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week.”
“Ay, my dear, I’ll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way.”
“And now,” silently conjectured Elinor, “she will write to Combe by this
day’s post.”
But if she did, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy which
eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth of it
might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough contentment about it,
yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable
herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather,
and still happier in her expectation of a frost.
The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.
Jennings’s acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and Marianne
was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching the
variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air.
“Don’t you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There seems
to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm even in
my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem parting too, the
sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon.”
Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered, and
saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the
appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost.
The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.
Jennings’s style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour
to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her household
arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few
old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton’s regret, she had never dropped,
she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the
feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find herself more comfortably
situated in that particular than she had expected, Elinor was very willing to
compound for the want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening
parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could
have little to amuse her.
Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with
them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor, who
often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any
other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much concern
his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a strengthening regard.
It grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched Marianne,
and his spirits were certainly worse than when at Barton.
About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was
also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the
morning’s drive.
“Good God!” cried Marianne, “he has been here while we were out.”
Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to say,
“Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.” But Marianne seemed
hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings’s entrance, escaped with the
precious card.
This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of her
sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this moment her
mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day,
made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on being left behind, the next
morning, when the others went out.
Elinor’s thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street
during their absence; but a moment’s glance at her sister when they returned
was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second visit there. A
note was just then brought in, and laid on the table.
“For me!” cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.
“No, ma’am, for my mistress.”
But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.
“It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!”
“You are expecting a letter, then?” said Elinor, unable to be longer silent.
“Yes, a little—not much.”
After a short pause. “You have no confidence in me, Marianne.”
“Nay, Elinor, this reproach from you—you who have confidence in no
one!”
“Me!” returned Elinor in some confusion; “indeed, Marianne, I have
nothing to tell.”
“Nor I,” answered Marianne with energy, “our situations then are alike.
We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not
communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing.”
Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not
at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press for
greater openness in Marianne.
Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it
aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit
Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and
cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John’s part, and a violent
cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street. The invitation
was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it
was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that they should both attend her
on such a visit, Elinor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for
still she had seen nothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more
indisposed for amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his
calling again in her absence.
Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not
materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in
town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young
people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however, of
which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an unpremeditated
dance was very allowable; but in London, where the reputation of elegance
was more important and less easily attained, it was risking too much for the
gratification of a few girls, to have it known that Lady Middleton had given
a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two violins, and a mere side-
board collation.
Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had
not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the
appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came
near her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance. He looked
at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely
nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the room. Marianne gave
one glance round the apartment as she entered: it was enough—he was not
there—and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate
pleasure. After they had been assembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer
sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing
them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first informed of their
arrival at his house, and he had himself said something very droll on
hearing that they were to come.
“I thought you were both in Devonshire,” said he.
“Did you?” replied Elinor.
“When do you go back again?”
“I do not know.” And thus ended their discourse.
Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was
that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She complained
of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.
“Aye, aye,” said Mrs. Jennings, “we know the reason of all that very
well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you would
not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very pretty of him
not to give you the meeting when he was invited.”
“Invited!” cried Marianne.
“So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him
somewhere in the street this morning.” Marianne said no more, but looked
exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing something that
might lead to her sister’s relief, Elinor resolved to write the next morning to
her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health of Marianne, to
procure those inquiries which had been so long delayed; and she was still
more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving after breakfast on the
morrow, that Marianne was again writing to Willoughby, for she could not
suppose it to be to any other person.
About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on
business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too restless
for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one window to
the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Elinor was very
earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that had passed, her
suspicions of Willoughby’s inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty
and affection to demand from Marianne an account of her real situation
with respect to him.
Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and
Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the
window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he
entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing
satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in
particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word. Elinor,
persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her sister was
concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the first time of her
feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before, beginning
with the observation of “your sister looks unwell to-day,” or “your sister
seems out of spirits,” he had appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or
of inquiring, something particular about her. After a pause of several
minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some
agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother?
Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready,
was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he
meant? He tried to smile as he replied, “your sister’s engagement to Mr.
Willoughby is very generally known.”
“It cannot be generally known,” returned Elinor, “for her own family do
not know it.”
He looked surprised and said, “I beg your pardon, I am afraid my inquiry
has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they
openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of.”
“How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?”
“By many—by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom
you are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But
still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather
unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its
doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally seen a
letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in your sister’s writing. I
came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could ask the question. Is
every thing finally settled? Is it impossible to—? But I have no right, and I
could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe
I have been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on
your prudence I have the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all
absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if
concealment be possible, is all that remains.”
These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for
her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to say
anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short
time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The real state of things
between Willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that in
endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too
little. Yet as she was convinced that Marianne’s affection for Willoughby,
could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon’s success, whatever the event of
that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct
from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some
consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. She
acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by
themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their
mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not
astonished to hear.
He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose
directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, “to your sister
I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to
deserve her,”—took leave, and went away.
Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen
the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary,
with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon’s unhappiness, and was
prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event
that must confirm it.
