Array The griffin classics - The Complete Works of Jane Austen

"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—what, oh what, can do away such happiness as that?"

"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly.

"No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. You CAN have no grief."

"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state."

"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine 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."

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.

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, adieu.

"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 generally out by one. We were last

night at Lady Middleton's, 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:—

"What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your

behaviour last night? Again I demand an 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

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, 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?"

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?"