Sense and Sensibility (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (31 page)

“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.”

All that had passed
, Elinor repeated to herself. She was certain she knew what the words meant.

Elinor 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:

Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the Middletons’, was in these words: —

The contents of her last note to him were these: —

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby’s sake, would have been unwilling to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of their 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 Elinor; “but unfortunately he did not feel the same.”

“He
did
feel the same, Elinor — 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?”

Elinor knew that if she dared to go against all propriety and ask the one question she knew she must ask in order to understand her sister’s plight to the fullest, the time to do so was now. She steadied herself, took in several deep breaths, and said, as gently as she could, “Marianne, in your letter to Willoughby, what did you mean by ‘the half hour you spent together on the hill’ last night?”

Marianne looked up at Elinor, her face turning an even darker shade of crimson than the one that had been produced by her fits. “Oh, my dear sister, I fear I cannot withhold the truth from you any longer! Willoughby and I are lovers!”

Elinor was expecting this, and indeed she had no right to be scandalised, as she herself had been engaging in similar behaviour, but in that moment she thanked God that Mrs. Jennings was no longer at home. Such a conversation, if necessary to be conducted at all, should be conducted as far away from their host’s prying ears and loose mouth as possible.

Elinor just nodded, and took her sister’s hand.

“Are you not repulsed by me, sister?” Marianne asked.

“No, Marianne, I am not.” She paused a moment and then added, “I understand completely.”

Marianne’s eyes grew wide. “You mean, you and Edward have made love as well?”

“We have.” Elinor could not help the smile that crept across her face in spite of the seriousness of the situation.

Marianne surprised Elinor by throwing her arms around her and embracing her in a sisterly hug. “Is it not the most wonderful thing in the entire world?”

Elinor’s smile grew larger. “I dare say it is.”

The moment was lightened for a stretch as the Dashwood sisters eagerly bonded over their shared experiences — whilst never going into too much detail, of course. They simply discussed how liberating it was to shed one’s clothing in the presence of another, how different a man’s body was from a woman’s, how satisfying it was to let down the walls of propriety every now and again and instead engage in what felt right, and how magnificent it felt to love and be loved.

That last sentiment, brought on Marianne’s tears once more, and for a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone —

“Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby.”

“Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been instigated?”

“By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in 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 bely 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?”

Elinor 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. Elinor, Elinor, 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 more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so miserable — Oh! who can require it?”

Again they were both silent. Elinor 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. Elinor, 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! — Elinor, 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 as she recalled his admitting to having brought a woman or two to Allenham before her — could
she
have been one of them? — , and it ended thus: —

“Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be gone to-morrow?”

“To-morrow, Marianne!”

“Yes, why should I stay here? I came only 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 Middletons and Palmers — how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would
he
say to that!”

Elinor 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 and motionless.

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. Ay, 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 it by a particular friend of Miss Grey 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 Parrys and Sandersons 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 supposed her young friend’s affliction could be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But “no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less.” Elinor, pleased to have her governed 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 every thing that was passing before her.