CHAPTER XVI.
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.
