Chapter 29

by Jane Austen

　　Before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day,or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morningin January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneelingagainst one of the window-seats for the sake of allthe little light she could command from it, and writingas fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her.In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitationand sobs, first perceived her; and after observing herfor a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a toneof the most considerate gentleness,"Marianne, may I ask-?""No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you willsoon know all."The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said,lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediatelyfollowed by a return of the same excessive affliction.It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter,and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her,at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of herfeeling how more than probable it was that she was writingfor the last time to Willoughby.Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attentionin her power; and she would have tried to sooth andtranquilize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her,with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability,not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances,it was better for both that they should not be long together;and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only preventedher from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed,but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place,made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoidingthe sight of every body. At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eatany thing; and Elinor's attention was then all employed,not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearingto regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jenning'snotice entirely to herself.As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings,it lasted a considerable time, and they were just settingthemselves, after it, round the common working table, when aletter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caughtfrom the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness,instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainlyby this, as if she had seen the direction, that it mustcome from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sicknessat heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head,and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear itimpossible to escape Mrs. Jenning's notice. That good lady,however, saw only that Marianne had received a letterfrom Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke,and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh,that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor's distress,she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worstedfor her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuingher talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman sodesperately in love in my life! My girls were nothingto her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but asfor Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature.I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep herwaiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see herlook so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?"Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than atthat moment, obliged herself to answer such an attackas this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "And haveyou really, Ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasionof my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thoughtit had been only a joke, but so serious a question seemsto imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will notdeceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothingwould surprise me more than to hear of their being goingto be married.""For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can youtalk so? Don't we all know that it must be a match, thatthey were over head and ears in love with each other fromthe first moment they met? Did not I see them togetherin Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not Iknow that your sister came to town with me on purposeto buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't do.Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobodyelse has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you,for it has been known all over town this ever so long.I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte.""Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously,"you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thingin spreading the report, and you will find that you havethough you will not believe me now."Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had notspirits to say more, and eager at all events to knowwhat Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room,where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched onthe bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,and two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near,but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed,took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times,and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at firstwas scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The latter,though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tendernessof this behaviour, and after some time thus spent injoint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor's hands;and then covering her face with her handkerchief,almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief,shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course,watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhatspent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter,read as follows:"Bond Street, January. "My Dear Madam,"I have just had the honour of receiving yourletter, for which I beg to return my sincereacknowledgments. I am much concerned to find therewas anything in my behaviour last night that didnot meet your approbation; and though I am quite ata loss to discover in what point I could be sounfortunate as to offend you, I entreat yourforgiveness of what I can assure you to have beenperfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect onmy former acquaintance with your family in Devonshirewithout the most grateful pleasure, and flattermyself it will not be broken by any mistake ormisapprehension of my actions. My esteem for yourwhole family is very sincere; but if I have been sounfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more thanI felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myselffor not having been more guarded in my professionsof that esteem. That I should ever have meant moreyou will allow to be impossible, when you understandthat my affections have been long engaged elsewhere,and it will not be many weeks, I believe, beforethis engagement is fulfilled. It is with greatregret that I obey your commands in returning theletters with which I have been honoured from you,and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowedon me."I am, dear Madam,"Your most obedient"humble servant,"John Willoughby."With what indignation such a letter as this mustbe read by Miss Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware,before she began it, that it must bring a confessionof his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever,she was not aware that such language could be sufferedto announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughbycapable of departing so far from the appearance of everyhonourable and delicate feeling--so far from the commondecorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudentlycruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desireof a release any professions of regret, acknowledged nobreach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever--a letter of which every line was an insult, and whichproclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy.She paused over it for some time with indignantastonishment; then read it again and again; but everyperusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man,and so bitter were her feelings against him, that shedared not trust herself to speak, lest she might woundMarianne still deeper by treating their disengagement,not as a loss to her of any possible good but as anescape from the worst and most irremediable of allevils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled man,as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter,on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it,and probably, on the very different mind of a very differentperson, who had no other connection whatever with the affairthan what her heart gave him with every thing that passed,Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister,forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread,and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room,that when on hearing a carriage drive up to the door,she went to the window to see who could be coming sounreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceiveMrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not beenordered till one. Determined not to quit Marianne,though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her ease,she hurried away to excuse herself from attendingMrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed.Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concernfor its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor,after seeing her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom shefound attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reachedjust in time to prevent her from falling on the floor,faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest and food;for it was many days since she had any appetite, and manynights since she had really slept; and now, when hermind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense,the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head,a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness.A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to expresssome sense of her kindness, by saying, "Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!""I only wish," replied her sister, "there wereany thing I could do, which might be of comfort to you."This, as every thing else would have been,was too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim,in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I am miserable,indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.Elinor could no longer witness this torrentof unresisted grief in silence."Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried,"if you would not kill yourself and all who love you.Think of your mother; think of her misery while you suffer:for her sake you must exert yourself.""I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me,leave me, if I distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me!but do not torture me so. Oh! how easy for those,who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! Happy,happy Elinor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer.""Do you call me happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew!--Andcan you believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!""Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms roundher sister's neck; "I know you feel for me; I know whata heart you have; but yet you are--you must be happy;Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away such happinessas that?""Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly."No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you,and only you. You can have no grief.""I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state.""And you will never see me otherwise. Mine isa misery which nothing can do away.""You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you nocomforts? no friends? Is your loss such as leavesno opening for consolation? Much as you suffer now,think of what you would have suffered if the discoveryof his character had been delayed to a later period--if your engagement had been carried on for months and months,as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it.Every additional day of unhappy confidence, on your side,would have made the blow more dreadful.""Engagement!" cried Marianne, "there has beenno engagement.""No engagement!""No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him.He has broken no faith with me.""But he told you that he loved you.""Yes--no--never absolutely. It was every day implied,but never professedly declared. Sometimes I thought ithad been--but it never was.""Yet you wrote to him?"--"Yes--could that be wrong after all that had passed?--But I cannot talk."Elinor said no more, and turning again to the threeletters which now raised a much stronger curiositythan before, directly ran over the contents of all.The first, which was what her sister had sent himon their arrival in town, was to this effect.Berkeley Street, January. "How surprised you will be, Willoughby, onreceiving this; and I think you will feel somethingmore than surprise, when you know that I am in town.An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs.Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist.I wish you may receive this in time to come hereto-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rateI shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu."M.D."Her second note, which had been written on the morningafter the dance at the Middletons', was in these words:-- "I cannot express my disappointment in havingmissed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishmentat not having received any answer to a note whichI sent you above a week ago. I have been expectingto hear from you, and still more to see you, everyhour of the day. Pray call again as soon as possible,and explain the reason of my having expected thisin vain. You had better come earlier another time,because we are generally out by one. We were lastnight at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance.I have been told that you were asked to be of theparty. But could it be so? You must be very muchaltered indeed since we parted, if that could bethe case, and you not there. But I will not supposethis possible, and I hope very soon to receive yourpersonal assurance of its being otherwise."M.D."The contents of her last note to him were these:-- "What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by yourbehaviour last night? Again I demand an explanationof it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasurewhich our separation naturally produced, with thefamiliarity which our intimacy at Barton appearedto me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I havepassed a wretched night in endeavouring to excusea conduct which can scarcely be called less thaninsulting; but though I have not yet been able toform any reasonable apology for your behaviour,I am perfectly ready to hear your justification ofit. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposelydeceived, in something concerning me, which may havelowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is,explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shallbe satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. Itwould grieve me indeed to be obliged to think illof you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn thatyou are not what we have hitherto believed you, thatyour regard for us all was insincere, that yourbehaviour to me was intended only to deceive, letit be told as soon as possible. My feelings are atpresent in a state of dreadful indecision; I wishto acquit you, but certainty on either side will beease to what I now suffer. If your sentiments areno longer what they were, you will return my notes,and the lock of my hair which is in your possession."M.D."That such letters, so full of affection and confidence,could have been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake,would have been unwilling to believe. But her condemnationof him did not blind her to the impropriety of theirhaving been written at all; and she was silently grievingover the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicitedproofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding,and most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne,perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed toher that they contained nothing but what any one wouldhave written in the same situation."I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnlyengaged to him, as if the strictest legal covenanthad bound us to each other.""I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunatelyhe did not feel the same.""He did feel the same, Elinor--for weeks and weeks hefelt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (andnothing but the blackest art employed against me can have doneit), I was once as dear to him as my own soul could wish.This lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up,was begged of me with the most earnest supplication.Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voiceat that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of ourbeing together at Barton? The morning that we partedtoo! When he told me that it might be many weeks beforewe met again--his distress--can I ever forget his distress?"For a moment or two she could say no more;but when this emotion had passed away, she added,in a firmer tone, "Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby.""Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can hehave been instigated?""By all the world, rather than by his own heart.I could rather believe every creature of my acquaintanceleagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believehis nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom hewrites--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but your owndear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarousto bely me. Beyond you three, is there a creaturein the world whom I would not rather suspect of evilthan Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?"Elinor would not contend, and only replied,"Whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let thembe cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister,by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your owninnocence and good intentions supports your spirits.It is a reasonable and laudable pride which resistssuch malevolence.""No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine hasno pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched.The triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world.Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud andindependent as they like--may resist insult, or returnmortification--but I cannot. I must feel--I must bewretched--and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousnessof it that can.""But for my mother's sake and mine--""I would do more than for my own. But to appearhappy when I am so miserable--Oh! who can require it?"Again they were both silent. Elinor was employedin walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window,from the window to the fire, without knowing that shereceived warmth from one, or discerning objects throughthe other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed,with her head leaning against one of its posts,again took up Willoughby's letter, and, after shudderingover every sentence, exclaimed--"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could thisbe yours! Cruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you. Elinor,nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against me--ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not tohave told me of it, to have given me the power of clearingmyself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)which you so obligingly bestowed on me'--That is unpardonable.Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words?Oh, barbarously insolent!--Elinor, can he be justified?""No, Marianne, in no possible way.""And yet this woman--who knows what her art mayhave been?--how long it may have been premeditated,and how deeply contrived by herWho canshe be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young andattractive 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 forWilloughby's sake--and now who cares for me? Who regards me?""It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We oweMrs. Jennings much more than civility; and civility ofthe commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that.""Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannotstay here long, I cannot stay to endure the questionsand remarks of all these people. The Middletons andPalmers--how am I to bear their pity? The pity of sucha woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would he say to that!"Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for amoment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease;and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from oneposture 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 callfor assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which shewas at length persuaded to take, were of use; and fromthat time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continuedon the bed quiet and motionless.