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1He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young
2lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again,
3and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good
4as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and
5unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the
6observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could
7speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him instantly.--I cannot rest--I shall
8not have a moment's peace till this is explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment."
9"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till
10tomorrow." With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her
11agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more
12effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by
13exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and
14telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument
15for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too
16miserable to stay a minute longer. Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was
17unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they
18departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street.
19Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they
20could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in
21bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs.
22Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past. That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby
23and Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might
24still feed her own wishes, she could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but
25a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she
26not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from
27believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any
28design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him
29to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt. As for Marianne, on
30the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her
31in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the
32comparison; for while she could esteem Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might
33be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of
34Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. CHAPTER XXIX.
35Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in
36January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light
37she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor,
38roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent
39anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I ask--?" "No, Elinor," she replied, "ask
40nothing; you will soon know all." The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while
41she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she
42could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her
43pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to
44Willoughby. Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and
45tranquilize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not
46to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and
47the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed,
48but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time,
49avoiding the sight of every body. At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor's attention
50was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to
51engage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself. As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a
52considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was
53delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran
54out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from
55Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a
56general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice. That good lady, however, saw only that
57Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated
58accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily
59employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon
60as Marianne disappeared, she said, "Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! My girls
61were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature.
62I 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
63ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?" Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,
64obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am,
65talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but
66so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I
67do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."
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