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.