"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their
engagement (if they ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith--
and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient
for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present.
But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us."
"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse
Willoughby and Marianne of concealment? This is strange
indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every day
"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor;
"but of their engagement I do."
"I am perfectly satisfied of both."
"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the
subject, by either of them."
"I have not wanted syllables where actions have
spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne
and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight,
declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife,
and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest
relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other?
Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner,
his attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor,
is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could
such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed
that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your
sister's love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps
for months, without telling her of his affection;--that
they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?"
"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance
except ONE is in favour of their engagement;
but that ONE is the total silence of both on the subject,
and with me it almost outweighs every other."
"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed
of Willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them,
you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together.
Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister
all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her?"
"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her
I am sure."
"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can
leave her with such indifference, such carelessness
of the future, as you attribute to him."
"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never
considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts,
I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they
may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond,
every fear of mine will be removed."
"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see
them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to
be married. Ungracious girl! But I require no such proof.
Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt;
no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open
and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes.
It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why?
Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any
inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?"
"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.
"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his
integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me.
It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it.
I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his
manners this morning;--he did not speak like himself,
and did not return your kindness with any cordiality.
But all this may be explained by such a situation of his
affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from
my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction;
and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith,
to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet
aware that by declining your invitation, by saying
that he was going away for some time, he should seem
to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family,
be might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case,
a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been
more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent
with his general character;--but I will not raise objections
against any one's conduct on so illiberal a foundation,
as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from
what I may think right and consistent."
"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does
not deserve to be suspected. Though WE have not known
him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world;
and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been
in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,
it might have been odd that he should leave us without
acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case.
It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun,
for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance;
and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now
be very advisable."
They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret;
and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations
of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many,
and hope for the justice of all.
They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time,
when she entered the room and took her place at the table
without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen;
and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained
with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all,
could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her
mother's silently pressing her hand with tender compassion,
her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst
into tears and left the room.
This violent oppression of spirits continued the
whole evening. She was without any power, because she
was without any desire of command over herself.
The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby
overpowered her in an instant; and though her family
were most anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was
impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear
of every subject which her feelings connected with him.
Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable
had she been able to sleep at all the first night
after parting from Willoughby. She would have been
ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning,
had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose
than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which
made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger
of incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she
wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a headache,
was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters,
and forbidding all attempt at consolation from either.
Her sensibility was potent enough!
When breakfast was over she walked out by herself,
and wandered about the village of Allenham, indulging the
recollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present
reverse for the chief of the morning.
The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.
She played over every favourite song that she had been used
to play to Willoughby, every air in which their voices
had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing
on every line of music that he had written out for her,
till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness
could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every
day applied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte
alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally
suspended by her tears. In books too, as well as in music,
she courted the misery which a contrast between the past
and present was certain of giving. She read nothing
but what they had been used to read together.
Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported
for ever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy;
but these employments, to which she daily recurred,
her solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced
occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.
No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected
by Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again
became uneasy. But Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations
whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself.
"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John
fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them
to it. We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary,
and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if
their correspondence were to pass through Sir John's hands."
Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried
to find in it a motive sufficient for their silence.
But there was one method so direct, so simple, and in
her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state
of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery,
that she could not help suggesting it to her mother.
"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she,
"whether she is or she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you,
her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question
could not give offence. It would be the natural result
of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserve,
and to you more especially."
"I would not ask such a question for the world.
Supposing it possible that they are not engaged,
what distress would not such an enquiry inflict! At any
rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve
her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession
of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.
I know Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me,
and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known,
when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible.
I would not attempt to force the confidence of any one;
of a child much less; because a sense of duty would prevent
the denial which her wishes might direct."