 27 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, to his sad thing for a sportsman 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 Mary Ann, 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. Frost 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 to-night.' "'At any rate,' said Eleanor, 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.' "'I, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way.' "'And now,' silently conjectured Eleanor, she will write to comb 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 Eleanor 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 cheaply 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, Eleanor? 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.' Eleanor 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 Dash Woods 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. Everything in her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and accepting 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, Eleanor 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 Eleanor, 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 it 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! Eleanor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to say, Depend upon it. He will call again to-morrow. But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her and on Mrs. Jennings' entrance escaped with the precious card. This event, while it raised the spirits of Eleanor, 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 anything. She insisted on being left behind the next morning when the others went out. Eleanor'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 Eleanor, unable to be longer silent. Yes, a little, not much. After a short pause. You have no confidence in me, Marianne. Nay, Eleanor, this reproach from you, you who have confidence in no one. Me! returned Eleanor in some confusion. Indeed, Marianne, I have nothing to tell. Or I! answered Marianne with energy. Our situations, then, are alike. We have neither of us anything to tell. You, because you do not communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing. Eleanor, 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, Eleanor 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. Eleanor 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 couples, with two violins, and a mere sideboard 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 Eleanor. "'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. "'I, I,' 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, Eleanor 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 his 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 Eleanor 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. Eleanor 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 wrap 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. Eleanor 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 her brother. Eleanor 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 Eleanor, 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 have you 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 everything finally settled? Is it impossible to...? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me, Mr. Ashwood, I believe I have been wronging 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 Eleanor 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, endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to save 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 the 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. Eleanor 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. CHAPTER XXVIII. OF SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. By Jane Austen. CHAPTER XXVIII. Nothing occurred during the next three or four days to make Eleanor regret what she had done in applying to her mother, for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter, and for this party Marianne wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or stayed, prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's arrival, but once stirring from her seat, were altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence, and when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that anyone was expected. They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by Kurt Singh to the Lady of the House, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Casino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Eleanor, luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table. They had not remained in this manner long before Eleanor perceived Willoughby standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable-looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her, and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Eleanor turned involuntarily to Marianne to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her. Good heavens! she exclaimed. He is there! He is there! Oh, why does he not look at me? Why cannot I speak to him? Pray, pray, be composed! cried Eleanor, and do not betray what you feel to everybody present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet. This however was more than she could believe herself, and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. At last he turned round again and regarded them both. She started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Eleanor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Eleanor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me? He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Eleanor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause he spoke with calmness. I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope. But have you not received my notes? cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. Here is some mistake I am sure, some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby, for heaven's sake, tell me, what is the matter? He made no reply. His complexion changed, and all his embarrassment returned. But as if on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion. He recovered himself again, and after saying, Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, but you were so good as to send me. Turned hastily away with a slight bow, and joined his friend. Marianne now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Eleanor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. Go to him, Eleanor! she cried as soon as she could speak, and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again, must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest. I shall not have a moment's peace till this is explained. Some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment! How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till to-morrow. With difficulty, however, could she prevent her from following him herself, and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait at least with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect was impossible. For Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Eleanor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend they departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears. But as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where Heartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past. That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear. For however Marianne might still feed her own wishes, she could not attribute such behavior to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak of consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formally existed she could not bring herself to doubt. As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison, for while she could esteem Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported, but every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. CHAPTER XXIX Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half-dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and riding as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation Eleanor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her, and after observing her for a few moments with that silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, Marianne, may I ask? No, Eleanor, she replied, ask nothing, you will soon know all. The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said lasted no longer with them while she spoke, and was immediately followed 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 would still obliged her at intervals to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than improbable it was that she was riding for the last time to Willoughby. Eleanor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power, and she would have tried to soothe and tranquilize 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 belong together, and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented her 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, avoiding the sight of everybody. At breakfast she neither ate nor attempted to eat anything, and Eleanor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not impidying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself. As this was a favorite meal with Mrs. Jennings it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves after it round the common working-table. When a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Eleanor, who saw as plainly by this as if she had seen the direction that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremor as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from 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 Eleanor's distress she was too busily employed in measuring links of worsted for her rug to see anything at all, and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said, Upon my word I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life. My girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough, but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married? Or, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile replied, And have you really, ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sisters being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more, and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married. For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood, how can you talk so? Don't we all know that it must be a match, that they were overhead and heels in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, at all day long, and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else 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 everybody of it, and so does Charlotte. Indeed, ma'am, said Eleanor, very seriously, you are mistaken. Indeed you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have, though you will not believe me now. Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Eleanor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others laying by her. Eleanor 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 first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behavior, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Eleanor's hands, and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Eleanor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till the success of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter read as follows. One Street, January My dear madam, I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was anything in my behavior last night that did not meet your approbation, and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in Deventure without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole family is very sincere, but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever have met more you will allow to be impossible when you understand that my infections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters with which I have been uttered from you, and the lock of hair which you so obligingly bestowed on me. I am, dear madam, your most obedient, humble servant, John Willoughby. With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood may be imagined, though aware, before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever. She was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it, nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling, so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so imputantly cruel, a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever, a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy. She paused over for some time with indignant astonishment, then read it again and again, but every perusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any possible good, but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all evils, a connection for life with an unprinciple demand, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important. In her earnest meditation 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 different person who had no other connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with everything that passed, Eleanor 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 went on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably early. She was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of contributing at present to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good, humored concern for its cause, added the excuse most readily, and Eleanor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy with a long want of proper rest and food, for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept. And now, when her mind 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 Eleanor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her kindness by saying, Poor Eleanor, how unhappy I make you! I only wish, replied her sister, there were anything I could do which might be of comfort to you. This, as everything else would have been, was too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim in the anguish of her heart, Oh, Eleanor, I am miserable indeed! Before her voice was entirely lost in sobs. Eleanor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief and 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! Be happy, Eleanor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer. Do you call me happy, Marianne? Ah, if you knew! And can you believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched? Forgive me, forgive me, throwing her arms round her sister's neck. I know you feel for me, I know what a heart you have, but yet you are. You must be happy, Edward loves you. But oh, what can do away such happiness as that? Many, many circumstances, said Eleanor 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 is a misery which nothing can do away. You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts, no friends? Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of 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 been no 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 it had been, but it never was. Yet you wrote to him? Yes. Could that be wrong after all that had passed? But I cannot talk. Eleanor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all. The first which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town was to this effect. Berkeley Street, January. How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this, and I think you will feel something more 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 here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall expect you to-morrow, for the present I do M.D. Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the Middletons, was in these words. I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are gently out by one. We were last night at Lady Middletons, where there was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the party, but could it be so? You must be very much altered indeed, since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your personal assurance of its being otherwise. M.D. The contents of her last note to him were these. And am I to imagine Willoughby by your behaviour last night? Again I demanded explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed. I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting. But though I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill of you. But if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision. I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be an ease to what I now suffer. If your sentiments are no 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. Eleanor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of there having been written at all, and she was silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation. I felt myself, she added, to be as solemnly engaged to him as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other. I can believe it, said Eleanor, but unfortunately he did not feel the same. He did feel the same, Eleanor, for weeks and weeks he felt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can have done it. 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 voice at that moment? Have you forgot the last evening of our being together at Barton? The morning that we parted, too, when he told me that it might be many weeks before we 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. Eleanor, I have been cruelly used, but not by Willoughby. Dearest Marianne, who but himself, by whom can he have been instigated? By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leaked together to ruin me and his opinion than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom he writes, whoever she be, or any one in short but your own dear self, Mama and Edward, may have been so barbarous to belie me. Beyond you three is there a creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well? Eleanor would not contend, and only replied, Whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence. No, no, cried Marianne, misery such as mine has no pride, I care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world. Eleanor, Eleanor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like, may resist insult, or return mortification, but I cannot, I must feel, I must be wretched, and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can. But for my mother's sake and mine, I would do no more than for my own, but to appear happy when I am so miserable, oh, who can require it? Again they were both silent. Eleanor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the 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 shuddering over every sentence exclaimed, It is too much, oh Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours? Cruel, cruel! Nothing can acquit you. Eleanor, nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against me, ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself? 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! Eleanor, can he be justified? No, Marianne, in no possible way. And yet this woman, who knows what her art may have been, how long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her. Who is she? Who can she be? Whom did I ever hear him talk of, as young and attractive 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. Eleanor, I must go home. I must go and comfort Mama. Can we not be gone to-morrow? To-morrow, Marianne? Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake, and now who cares for me? Who regards me? It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more than civility, and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that. Well, then, another day or two, perhaps, but I cannot stay here long. I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. The Middleton's and Palmer's, how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman is Lady Middleton. Oh, what would he say to that? Eleanor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so. But no attitude could give her ease, and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture 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 call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use, and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet, emotionless. End of chapter. Chapter 30 of Sense and Sensibility. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Chapter 30. Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern. How do you do, my dear? Said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing, she looks very bad. No wonder. Aye, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon, a good for nothing fellow. I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told of it by a particular friend of Miss Gray herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it, and I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men's going on in this way, and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne. He is not the only young man in the world worth having, and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing. I won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. The Paris and Sanderson's luckily are coming tonight, you know, and that will amuse her. She then went away, walking on tiptoe, out of the room, as if she's supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise. Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Eleanor even advised her against it. But, no, she would go down, she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be the less. Eleanor, pleased to have her govern for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more, and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining-room as soon as they were summoned to it. When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained, but not a syllable escaped her lips, and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of everything that was passing before her. Eleanor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments and returned her those civilities which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friends saw that Marianne was unhappy and felt that everything was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her, therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favorite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Eleanor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavors to cure a disappointment in love by a variety of sweetmeats and olives and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of misery and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room. Poor soul, cried Mrs. Jennings as soon as she was gone, how it grieves me to see her, and I declare if she has not gone away without finishing her wine, and the dried cherries too. Lord, nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of anything she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill. But when there is plenty of money on one side and next to none on the other, Lord bless you, they care no more about such things. The lady then, Miss Gray, I think you called her, is very rich. 50,000 pounds, my dear, did you ever see her? A smart, stylish girl, they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshaw. She married a very wealthy man, but the family are all rich together. 50,000 pounds, and by all accounts it won't come before it's wanted, but they say he is all to pieces. No wonder, dashing about with his curicle and hunters. Well, it don't signify talking, but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don't he in such a case sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round, but that won't do nowadays. Nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age. Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Gray is? Is she said to be amiable? I never heard any harm of her, and deed I hardly ever heard or mentioned, except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning that one day Miss Walker hinted to her that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Gray married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree. And who are the Ellisons? Her guardians, my dear, but now she is of age and may choose for herself and a pretty choice she has made. What now? After pausing a moment, your poor sister has gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by and by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates whist, I know, but is there no round game she cares for? Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I daresay, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her, if I can, to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest. I, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper and go to bed. Lord, no wonder she has been looking so bad, and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter, I suppose, has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came to-day finished it. Poor soul, I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord, how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it. If I have my senses about me, I might have called in conduit street, in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them to-morrow. It would be unnecessary, I'm sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest illusion to what has passed before my sister. Their own good nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know anything about it when she is present, and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you, my dear madam, will easily believe. Oh, Lord, yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of, and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for all the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more wood, Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate, especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better. The sooner it is blown over and forgot. And what does talking ever do, you know? In this affair it can only do harm, more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances, which for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do this justice to Mr. Willoughby. He has broken no positive engagement with my sister. Law, my dear, don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement, indeed. After taking her all over Allenham House and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter? Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's, since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, first forth again. Well, my dear, tis a true saying about an ill wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last. I, that he will. Mind me now, if they ain't married by mid-summer. Lord, how he'll chuckle over this news. I hope he will come to-night. It will be all to want a better match for your sister, two thousand a year without debt or drawback, except the little love-child. Indeed, I had forgot her. But she may be apprenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you, exactly what I call a nice old-fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences, quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit trees in the country, and such a mulberry tree in one corner. Lord, how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there. Then there is a dove-coat, some delightful stupans, and a very pretty canal, and everything in short, that one could wish for, and moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the Turnpike road, so tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old U-arbor behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh, tis a nice place. A butcher hard-buy in the village and the parsonage house within a stone's throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbor nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, dries another down, if we can but put Willoughby out of her head. I, if we can do that, ma'am, said Eleanor, we shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon. And then rising she went away to join Marianne, whom she found as she expected in her own room, leaning in silent misery over the small remains of a fire, which till Eleanor's entrance had been her only light. You had better leave me, was all the notice that her sister received from her. I will leave you, said Eleanor, if you will go to bed. But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do. Her sister's earnest though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and Eleanor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her. In the drawing-room, whether she had then repaired, she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings with a wine-glass full of something in her hand. My dear, said she, entering, I have just recollected that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband, how fond he was of it. Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than anything else in the world. Do take it to your sister. Dear ma'am, replied Eleanor, smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended, how good you are. But I have just left Marianne in bed, and I hope almost asleep, and as I think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself. Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise, and Eleanor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected that though its effects on a colicky gout were at present of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed heart, might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister. Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Eleanor immediately fancied that he neither expected, nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought, for soon after his entrance she walked across the room to the tea-table where Eleanor presided and whispered, the Colonel looks as great as ever, you see. He knows nothing of it, do tell him, my dear. He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and with a look which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her sister. Marianne is not well, said she. She has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed. Perhaps, then, he hesitatingly replied, what I have heard this morning may be, there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at first. What did you hear? That a gentleman whom I had reason to think, and short, that a man whom I knew to be engaged, but how shall I tell you? If you know it already, as surely you must, I may be spared. You mean, answered Eleanor with forced calmness, Mr. Willoughby's marriage with Miss Gray. Yes, we do know it all. This seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable. Where did you hear it? In a stationer's shop in Palmel, where I had business, two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention, and what followed was a positive assertion that everything was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Gray. It was no longer to be a secret. It would take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing especially I remember, because it served to identify the man still more. As soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his seat in Summerceture. My astonishment, but it would be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learned on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Gray's guardian. It is, but have you likewise heard that Miss Gray has 50,000 pounds? In that, if in anything, we may find an explanation. It may be so, but Willoughby is capable, at least I think, he stopped a moment and added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself. And your sister, how did she? Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they may be proportionately short. It has been, it is, a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday I believe she never doubted his regard, and even now perhaps, but I am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her. He has been very deceitful, and in some points there seems a hardness of heart about him. Ah, said Colonel Brandon, there is indeed, but your sister does not, I think you said so, she does not consider quite as you do. You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she could. He made no answer, and soon afterwards by the removal of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card-parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's communication in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him with amazement, remained the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual. End of chapter. Chapter 31 of Sense and Sensibility. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Chapter 31. From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had closed her eyes. Eleanor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt, and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and again, and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on Eleanor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions of Marianne's as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world. At another she would seclude herself from it forever, and at a third could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was de-uniform when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion. No, no, no, it cannot be, she cried. She cannot feel. Her kindness is not sympathy. Her good nature is not tenderness. All that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it. Eleanor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her sister was often led, in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the two great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation. Because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill. With a letter in her outstretched hand, and Countenance gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying, now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good. Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing, and instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to enforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The handwriting of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her, and in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if till that instant she had never suffered. The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language within her reach and her moments of happiest eloquence could have expressed, and now she could reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate violence, a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled every page. Her mother, so confident of their engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Eleanor's application to entreat from Marianne greater openness towards them both, and this with such tenderness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it. All her impatience to be at home again now returned. Her mother was dearer to her than ever, dearer through the very excess of her mistaken confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Eleanor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be in London or at Barton, had no counsel of her own except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known, and at length she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge. Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual, for she could not be easy till the Middletons and Palmer's were able to grieve as much as herself, and positively refusing Eleanor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning. Eleanor with a very heavy heart, of the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving by Marianne's letter how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what it passed, and entreat her directions for the future. While Marianne, who came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table where Eleanor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more finely over its effect on her mother. In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled by a wrap at the door. "'Who can this be?' cried Eleanor. "'So early too. I thought we had been safe.' Marianne moved to the window. "'It's Colonel Brandon,' said she, with vexation, "'we are never safe from him. He will not come in as Mrs. Jennings is from home. I will not trust to that,' retreating to her own room. A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others.' The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice and error, for Colonel Brandon did come in. And Eleanor, who was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who saw that solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly. "'I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,' said he, after the first salutation, and she encouraged me to come on, and I was the more easily encouraged because I thought it probable that I might find you alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object, my wish, my soul-wish in desiring it, I hope, I believe it is, is to be a means of giving comfort. No, I must not say comfort, not present comfort, but conviction, suggesting conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for her, for yourself, for your mother, will you allow me to prove it? By relating some circumstances which nothing but a very sincere regard, nothing but an earnest desire of being useful, I think I am justified, though where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?' He stopped. "'I understand you,' said Eleanor. "'You have something to tell me of Mr. Willoughby that will open his character farther. You're telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. My gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that end, and hers must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray, let me hear it.' "'You shall, and to be brief when I quitted Barton last October. But this will give you no idea. I must go farther back. You will find me a very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood. I hardly know where to begin. A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it shall be a short one. On such a subject, sighing heavily, can I have little temptation to be diffuse?' He stopped a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went on. "'You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation. It is not to be supposed that it could make any impression on you. A conversation between us one evening at Barton Park. It was the evening of a dance, in which I alluded to a lady I had once known as resembling, in some measure, your sister Marianne.' "'Indeed,' answered Eleanor, "'I have not forgotten it.' He looked pleased by this remembrance, and added. If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well in mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were play-fellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Eliza, and my affection for her as we grew up was such as, perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of having ever felt. Hers for me was, I believe, fervid as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and it was, though from a different cause no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married, married against her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one who was at once her uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her. He did not even love her. I had hoped that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for some time it did. But at last the misery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing but how blindly I relate, I have never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland, the treachery, or the folly, of my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, to my father's point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one. But had her marriage been happy, so happy as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it. This, however, was not the case. My brother had no regard for her. His pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Vrandon's, was but too natural. She resigned herself at first to all the misery of her situation, and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that, was such a husband to provoking constancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her? For my father lived only a few months after their marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies. She should fall. And I remained in England, perhaps, but I meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had given me, he continued in a voice of great agitation, was of trifling weight, was nothing to what I felt when I heard about two years afterwards of her divorce. It was that which threw this gloom, even now the recollection of what I suffered. He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about the room. Eleanor, affected by his relation, and still more by his distress, could not speak. He saw her concern in coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure. It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned to England. My first care, when I did arrive, was of course to seek for her. But the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance and consequent distress had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I had been six months in England, I did find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a sponging house where he was confined for debt, and there, the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered, so faded, worn down by acute suffering of every kind. Hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl on whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding her. But I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it. I have pained you too much already. That she was to all appearance in the last stage of a consumption was, yes, in such a situation it was my greatest comfort. If could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death, and that was given. I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings and under proper attendance. I visited her every day during the rest of her short life. I was with her in her last moments. Again he stopped to recover himself, and Eleanor spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern at the fate of his unfortunate friend. "'Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,' said he, by the resemblance I have fancy between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same, and had the natural sweet disposition of the one being guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage. She might have been all that you will live to see the other be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood! A subject such as this, untouched for fourteen years. It is dangerous to handle it at all. I will be more collected, more concise." She left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about three years old. She loved the child, and had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious, trust to me, and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense by watching over her education myself had the nature of our situations allowed it. But I had no family, no home, and my little Eliza was therefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my brother, which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family property, she visited me at Delaford. I called her a distant relation, but I am well aware that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now three years ago. She had just reached her fourteenth year, that I removed her from school to place her under the care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorthitcher, who had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life, and for two years I had every reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February, almost a twelve-month back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her, imprudently as it since turned out, had her earnest desire to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his daughter. Better than she deserved, for with the most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy she would tell nothing would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information. Before he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they shows, and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughters being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone. All the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined, and what I suffered too. Good heavens! cried Eleanor. Could it be? Could will it be? The first news that reached me of her, he continued, came in a letter from herself last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell, and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure most at the time have appeared strange to everybody, and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable. But had he known it, what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who can feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address. He had left her promising to return. He neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her. This is beyond everything, exclaimed Eleanor. His character is now before you, expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all this as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him. Guess what I must have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth, though irresolute what to do when it was known. My behavior must have seemed strange to you then, but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived, to see your sister? But what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success, and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her? Whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless will, turn with gratitude towards her own condition when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Everyone for her unhappiness and respect for her fortitude under it must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect, but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others. Eleanor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness, attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne from the communication of what had passed. I have been more pained, said she, by her endeavours to acquit him than by all the rest, for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you, she continued after a short silence, ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton? Yes, he replied gravely. Once I have. One meeting was unavoidable. Eleanor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, What? Have you met him to— I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover, and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment. He did offend I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting therefore never got abroad. No nor side over the fancied necessity of this, but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. Such, said Colonel Brandon after a pause, has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter, and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust. Is she still in town? No, as soon as she recovered from her lying in, for I found her near her delivery. I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains. Recollecting soon afterwards that he was probably dividing Eleanor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. CHAPTER 32 OF SENSE AND SENSEBILITY When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behavior assured Eleanor that the conviction of this guilt was carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart, his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might once have been on herself, prayed altogether so much on her spirits that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Eleanor. And brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them. To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Eleanor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said, of a disappointment hardly less painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than Eleanor's. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought, to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and in treat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne's affliction be when her mother could talk of fortitude. Mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which she could wish her not to indulge. Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be anywhere at that time than at Barton, where everything within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings, the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her. From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. Design could never bring them in each other's way. Negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise, and chance had lessened its favor in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at Allingham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one. She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were. A letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right that they should sometimes see their brother. London had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she submitted to it, therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment's rest. But it was a matter of great consolation to her that what brought evil to herself would bring good to her sister, and Eleanor, on the other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking that though their longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire. Her carelessness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's name mentioned was not thrown away. Marianne, though not without knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage, for neither Mrs. Jennings nor Sir John nor even Mrs. Palmer herself ever spoke of him before her. Eleanor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all. Sir John could not have thought it possible. A man of whom he had always had such reason to think well, such a good natured fellow. He did not believe there was a bolder writer in England. It was an unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart. He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world. No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton Covert, and they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of a fellow! Such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies, and this was the end of it. Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. She was determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland. But it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far off to visit. She hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she saw how good for nothing he was. The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shown in procuring all the particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them to Eleanor. She could soon tell it what coach-makers the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Gray's clothes might be seen. The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton, on the occasion, was a happy relief to Eleanor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her, to be sure, of exciting no interest in one person at least among their circle of friends, a great comfort to know that there was one who would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health. Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real value, and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature. Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, It is very shocking indeed. And by the means of this continual, though gentle vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter, and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined, though rather against the opinion of Sir John, that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married. Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive inquiries were never unwelcome to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavored to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations was given in the pitying eye with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice whenever, though it did not often happen, she was obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him. These assured him that his exertion had produced an increase of goodwill towards himself, and these gave Eleanor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter. But Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued his grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began at the end of two days to think that, instead of Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honors of the Mulberry tree, the canal, and the U. Arbor would all be made over to her, and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time, ceased to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars. Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's letter, Eleanor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning. She received the news with resolute composure, made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears. But after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day she was in a state hardly less pityable than when she first learned to expect the event. The Willoughby's left town as soon as they were married, and Eleanor now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before. About this time the two Miss Steals, lately arrived at their cousin's house in Bartlett's buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in conduit in Berkeley streets, and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality. Eleanor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her still in town. I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here still," said she repeatedly with a strong emphasis on the word. But I always thought I should. I was almost sure you would not leave London yet a while, though you told me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a month. But I thought at the time that you would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came. And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad you did not keep to your word. Eleanor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command to make it appear that she did not. Well, my dear, said Mrs. Jennings, and how did you travel? Not in the stage, I assure you, replied Miss Steal, with quick exultation. We came post all the way, and had a very smart bow to attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chez. And he behaved very gentilly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did. Oh! Oh! cried Mrs. Jennings, very pretty indeed, and the doctor is a single man, I warn't you. There now, said Miss Steal, effectively simpering. Everybody laughs at me so about the doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest, but for my part I declare I never think about him from one hour's end to another. Lord, here comes your bow, Nancy! my cousin said the other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. My bow indeed, said I. I cannot think who you mean. The doctor is no bow of mine. I, I, that is very pretty talking, but it won't do. The doctor is the man I see. No indeed, replied her cousin with affected earnestness, and I beg you will contradict it if you ever hear it talked of. Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would not, and Miss Steal was made completely happy. I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss Dashwood, when they come to town, said Lucy, returning after a cessation of hostile hints to the charge. No, I do not think we shall. Oh yes, I dare say you will! Eleanor would not humor her by farther opposition. What a charming think it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together. Long a time indeed, interposed Mrs. Jennings, why, their visit is but just begun. Lucy was silenced. I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood, said Miss Steal. I am sorry she is not well, for Marianne had left the room on their arrival. You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you, but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous headaches which make her unfit for company or conversation. Oh dear, that is a great pity! But such old friends as Lucy and me! I think she might see us, and I am sure we would not speak a word. Eleanor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. Oh, if that's all, cried Miss Steal, we can just as well go and see her! Eleanor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper, but she was saved the trouble of checking it by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it