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1"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
2over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire
3every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes?
4Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no
5such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so does
6Charlotte." "Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing
7in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now." Mrs. Jennings laughed
8again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away
9to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in
10her hand, and two or three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the
11bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was
12scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this
13behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then
14covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it
15was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and
16then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as follows: "Bond Street, January. MY DEAR MADAM, "I have just had the
17honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there
18was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover
19in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have
20been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire without the
21most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My
22esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than
23I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem.
24That I should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been
25long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great
26regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of
27hair, which you so obligingly bestowed on me. "I am, dear Madam, "Your most obedient "humble servant, "JOHN WILLOUGHBY."
28With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she
29began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware
30that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of departing so far
31from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send
32a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of
33regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever--a letter of which every line was an
34insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy. She paused over it for some time with indignant
35astonishment; then read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so
36bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound Marianne still
37deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and
38most irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a
39blessing the most important. In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity of that mind
40which could dictate it, and probably, on the very different mind of a very different person, who had no other connection
41whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress
42of her sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in
43the room, that when on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so
44unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered
45till one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to
46excuse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly
47good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned
48to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from
49falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she had any
50appetite, and many nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer supported by the fever of
51suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness. A
52glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express
53some sense of her kindness, by saying, "Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!" "I only wish," replied her sister, "there
54were any thing I could do, which might be of comfort to you." This, as every thing else would have been, was too much
55for Marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I am miserable, indeed," before her
56voice was entirely lost in sobs. Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence. "Exert
57yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think
58of her misery while you suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself." "I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me,
59leave 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
60sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer." "Do you call me
61happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew!--And can you believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!" "Forgive me, forgive
62me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you
63are--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away such happiness as that?" "Many, many
64circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly. "No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. You can have no
65grief." "I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state." "And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery
66which nothing can do away." "You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is your loss such as
67leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his
68character had been delayed to a later period--if your engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might
69have been, before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy confidence, on your side, would have
70made the blow more dreadful." "Engagement!" cried Marianne, "there has been no engagement." "No engagement!"
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