feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/sparknotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_6_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Sense and Sensibility.chapters 28-32
feat_summary_id: chapters 28-32
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapters 28-32", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section7/", "summary": "Elinor and Marianne are obliged to accompany Lady Middleton to a party in town, even though Marianne is far too melancholic to enjoy dancing or card games. Suddenly, Marianne catches sight of Willoughby among the crowd and rushes forth to greet him. She is astonished and deeply distressed when he avoids her eye and appears absorbed in conversation with another young lady. When she finally approaches him directly, he coldly remarks that he indeed received her letters but never found her at home when he attempted to visit her in reply. Marianne must leave the party immediately with her sisters, for she is too overcome by grief to do anything but climb into bed. The next day, after breakfast, Marianne shares with Elinor a letter she has just received from Willoughby. In his letter, Willoughby apologizes for anything in his conduct at the party that might have offended her. He expresses his esteem for the entire Dashwood family and regrets if he ever gave Marianne any reason to believe that he felt differently for her. Finally, he informs her of his upcoming engagement to another woman and encloses in his letter the three notes that she sent him in London. To Elinor's dismay, all of Marianne's notes were urgent pleas for Willoughby to come visit her at Mrs. Jennings's home, even though, as Marianne confesses, they were never formally engaged to one another. Elinor can hardly believe that Marianne could be so forward in her affections when she and Willoughby were not even engaged, but she nevertheless tries to comfort her sister with gentle words, wine, and lavender drops. Marianne tells her sister that she wants to leave London immediately, but Elinor reminds her that it would be rude to leave Mrs. Jennings after such a short visit. Mrs. Jennings tries to comfort Marianne but says all the wrong things. She remarks to Elinor that her sister looks \"very bad\" and that she should realize that Willoughby \"is not the only young man in the world worth having.\" She also invites guests to dinner in order to amuse Marianne, but even her sweetmeats and olives cannot lift the girl's spirits. Marianne leaves the table early, but Elinor remains to hear Mrs. Jennings and her friends discuss how Willoughby squandered all his fortune and therefore abruptly proposed to Miss Sophia Grey, a wealthy heiress. Mrs. Jennings tells Elinor that now it will only be a matter of time before Marianne marries Colonel Brandon. While the party takes after-dinner tea, Colonel Brandon arrives to speak with Elinor. He fears that the rumor he heard in town about Willoughby's engagement to Miss Grey might be true, and Elinor confirms his fears. The next day, he visits once again to share with Elinor the sad story of his own romantic history, in the interest of shedding light on Marianne's predicament: he explains that he was once deeply in love with a woman named Eliza, but she was married against his inclination to his brother so as to ensure her fortune for the family. Brandon's brother treated her very unkindly, and she deceived him; ultimately, the couple divorced, and she disappeared. Colonel Brandon, formerly her lover and then her brother-in-law, at last found her dying of consumption in a sponging house  in London. He cared for her until her death and promised to take care of her three-year-old daughter. Willoughby placed the young girl in school, and she visited him periodically. Then, about a year earlier, she suddenly disappeared. The following October--the day of the intended picnic to Whitwell, which takes place earlier in the book--he received the news that she had been seduced and abandoned by none other than John Willoughby! He explains that this is why he had to rush off to London on the day of their planned outing. Elinor shares Colonel Brandon's story with Marianne and Marianne mourns the loss of Willoughby's \"good\" character just as she mourned the loss of him to another woman. The sisters also receive a note from their mother expressing her shock and pain at the news of Willoughby's betrayal. Nonetheless, Mrs. Dashwood urges her daughters to stay in town, especially since their half-brother John Dashwood and his wife Fanny will be arriving there shortly. Meanwhile, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, Lady Middleton, and the Steele sisters also offer words of sympathy to the Dashwood sisters, though their concern is more for themselves than for Marianne: Lady Middleton, for example, expresses outrage at Willoughby's behavior but then arranges to leave her card with Miss Grey since she will be an elegant and wealthy woman when she marries John Willoughby. Only the sympathy of Elinor, Mrs. Dashwood, and Colonel Brandon is entirely genuine and well-intentioned.", "analysis": "Commentary Although Austen makes reference throughout the novel to letters sent from one character to another, Chapter 29 is exceptional because it includes the full text of four letters sent between Willoughby and Marianne. Chapter 29 perhaps most closely resembles Austen's original 1795 manuscript for the book, which was conceived as an epistolary novel entitled Elinor and Marianne. It wasn't until at least four years later that Austen rewrote these letters with narration. Elinor feels that Willoughby's letter proclaims him to be \"deep in hardened villainy.\" Indeed, Willoughby is only one in a long line of Austen's male villains, including George Wickham , Henry Crawford . All of Austen's villains are tricksters, who initially seem charming, attractive, and witty. Some, like Frank Churchill, turn out to be fibbers and play-actors while others, like George Wickham, are downright frauds. However, Willoughby is both: he is a glamorous seducer as well as a corrupt philanderer. He is not just impetuous but also callous; he is not just insensitive but also vicious. As a result, it is not difficult to see how he can capture Marianne's heart without ever fully winning Elinor's confidence. The contrast between Elinor and Marianne is perhaps made most explicit in their reactions to their lovers' seemingly insensitive treatment. Whereas Elinor is relieved that she does not have to share Lucy's news about Edward with her mother and sister, Marianne insists through her grief that \"I care not who knows that I am wretched.\" Her attempt to claim intimacy with Willoughby at the party dramatizes the dangers of showing one's feelings publicly and contrasts strikingly with Elinor's more cautious restraint. Colonel Brandon's own personal story of his relationship with Eliza Williams and her daughter elaborately echoes Marianne's relationship with Willoughby. The details of Brandon's story parallel all of the plots of the novel, including that of the insensitive parent's commitment to primogeniture, of brothers who cannot see eye-to-eye, and of women whose hearts are broken by the men they love. However, Brandon's dramatic story also includes divorce, seduction, illegitimate birth, and even a duel, all of which are extreme consequences of the emotions and situations that Marianne Dashwood must confront. Though Brandon comments that he is a \"very awkward narrator,\" his story-within-a-story actually sheds light on many of the most important themes of the novel."}
text: 
  
  Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor
  regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby
  neither came nor wrote.  They were engaged about the end of that time
  to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept
  away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party,
  Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming
  equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one
  look of hope or one expression of pleasure.  She sat by the
  drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's
  arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude,
  lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and
  when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the
  door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.
  
  They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as
  the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the
  stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another
  in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full
  of company, and insufferably hot.  When they had paid their tribute of
  politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted
  to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and
  inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add.  After some
  time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to
  Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and
  Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great
  distance from the table.
  
  They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived
  Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest
  conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman.  She soon
  caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to
  speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her;
  and then continued his discourse with the same lady.  Elinor turned
  involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by
  her.  At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance
  glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him
  instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.
  
  "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there--he is there--Oh! why does
  he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?"
  
  "Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you
  feel to every body present.  Perhaps he has not observed you yet."
  
  This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be
  composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it
  was beyond her wish.  She sat in an agony of impatience which affected
  every feature.
  
  At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,
  and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to
  him.  He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than
  Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe
  her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and
  asked how long they had been in town.  Elinor was robbed of all
  presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word.  But
  the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed.  Her face was
  crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion,
  "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this?  Have you not
  received my letters?  Will you not shake hands with me?"
  
  He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he
  held her hand only for a moment.  During all this time he was evidently
  struggling for composure.  Elinor watched his countenance and saw its
  expression becoming more tranquil.  After a moment's pause, he spoke
  with calmness.
  
  "I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,
  and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find
  yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home.  My card was not lost, I hope."
  
  "But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest
  anxiety.  "Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake.  What
  can be the meaning of it?  Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell
  me, what is the matter?"
  
  He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment
  returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he
  had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion,
  he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure
  of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so
  good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined
  his friend.
  
  Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into
  her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried
  to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with
  lavender water.
  
  "Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force
  him to come to me.  Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him
  instantly.-- I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this
  is explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other.-- Oh go to him
  this moment."
  
  "How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait.  This is
  not the place for explanations.  Wait only till tomorrow."
  
  With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him
  herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least,
  with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more
  privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued
  incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings,
  by exclamations of wretchedness.  In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby
  quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne
  that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that
  evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm.  She instantly begged
  her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was
  too miserable to stay a minute longer.
  
  Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed
  that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her
  wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they
  departed as soon the carriage could be found.  Scarcely a word was
  spoken during their return to Berkeley Street.  Marianne was in a
  silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings
  was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room,
  where hartshorn restored her a little to herself.  She was soon
  undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her
  sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings,
  had leisure enough for thinking over the past.
  
  That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and
  Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,
  seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own
  wishes, SHE could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or
  misapprehension of any kind.  Nothing but a thorough change of
  sentiment could account for it.  Her indignation would have been still
  stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which
  seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented
  her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with
  the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that
  would bear investigation.  Absence might have weakened his regard, and
  convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a
  regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.
  
  As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already
  have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in
  its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest
  concern.  Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she
  could ESTEEM Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in
  future, her mind might be always supported.  But every circumstance
  that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery
  of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and
  irreconcilable rupture with him.
  
  
  
  
  Before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun
  gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only
  half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake
  of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast
  as a continual flow of tears would permit her.  In this situation,
  Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived
  her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety,
  said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,
  
  "Marianne, may I ask-?"
  
  "No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all."
  
  The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no
  longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return
  of the same excessive affliction.  It was some minutes before she could
  go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still
  obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of
  her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the
  last time to Willoughby.
  
  Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and
  she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not
  Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous
  irritability, not to speak to her for the world.  In such
  circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long
  together; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented
  her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but
  requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her
  wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every
  body.
  
  At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and
  Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in
  pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to
  engage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself.
  
  As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a
  considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it,
  round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to
  Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a
  death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room.  Elinor, who saw as
  plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come
  from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her
  hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as
  made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice.  That good
  lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from
  Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she
  treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to
  her liking.  Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in
  measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and
  calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,
  
  "Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my
  life!  MY girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish
  enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature.  I
  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 ill and forlorn.
  Pray, when are they to be married?"
  
  Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,
  obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,
  trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself
  into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby?  I
  thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to
  imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive
  yourself any longer.  I do assure you that nothing would surprise me
  more than to hear of their being going to be married."
  
  "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 over head and ears in
  love with each other from the first moment they met?  Did not I see
  them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I
  know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding
  clothes?  Come, come, this won't do.  Because you are so sly about it
  yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such
  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 Charlotte."
  
  "Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken.
  Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and
  you will find that you have though you will not believe me now."
  
  Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,
  and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried
  away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne
  stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,
  and two or three others laying by her.  Elinor drew near, but without
  saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed
  her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of
  tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The
  latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of
  this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she
  put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her face
  with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony.  Elinor, who knew
  that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its
  course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent
  itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as
  follows:
  
                                "Bond Street, January.
       "MY DEAR MADAM,
  
       "I have just had the honour of receiving your
       letter, for which I beg to return my sincere
       acknowledgments.  I am much concerned to find there
       was anything in my behaviour last night that did
       not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at
       a loss to discover in what point I could be so
       unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your
       forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been
       perfectly unintentional.  I shall never reflect on
       my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire
       without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter
       myself it will not be broken by any mistake or
       misapprehension of my actions.  My esteem for your
       whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so
       unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than
       I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself
       for not having been more guarded in my professions
       of that esteem.  That I should ever have meant more
       you will allow to be impossible, when you understand
       that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere,
       and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before
       this engagement is fulfilled.  It is with great
       regret that I obey your commands in returning the
       letters with which I have been honoured from you,
       and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed
       on me.
  
       "I am, dear Madam,
                 "Your most obedient
                      "humble servant,
                                          "JOHN WILLOUGHBY."
  
  
  With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss
  Dashwood, may be imagined.  Though aware, before she began it, that it
  must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their
  separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be
  suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable
  of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and
  delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to
  send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing
  with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no
  breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever--a letter of
  which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be
  deep in hardened villainy.
  
  She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read
  it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her
  abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him,
  that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound
  Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to
  her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most
  irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled
  man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.
  
  In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the
  depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the
  very different mind of a very different person, who had no other
  connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with
  every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her
  sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so
  entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing
  a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who
  could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to
  perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered
  till one.  Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of
  contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse
  herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being
  indisposed.  Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for
  its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing
  her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise
  from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from
  falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest
  and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many
  nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer
  supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was
  felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous
  faintness.  A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,
  made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some
  sense of her kindness, by saying,
  
  "Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!"
  
  "I only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I COULD do,
  which might be of comfort to you."
  
  This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,
  who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I am
  miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.
  
  Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in
  silence.
  
  "Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill
  yourself and all who love you.  Think of your mother; think of her
  misery while YOU suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."
  
  "I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave 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 sorrow of their own to talk of
  exertion!  Happy, happy Elinor, YOU cannot have an idea of what I
  suffer."
  
  "Do you call ME happy, Marianne?  Ah! if you knew!--And can you believe
  me to be so, while I see you so wretched!"
  
  "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?"
  
  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, 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.
  
  Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its
  effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made
  her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her
  sister could not make or return for herself.  Their good friend saw
  that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her
  which might make her at all less so.  She treated her therefore, with
  all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the
  last day of its holidays.  Marianne was to have the best place by the
  fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to
  be amused by the relation of all the news of the day.  Had not Elinor,
  in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she
  could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a
  disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a
  good fire.  As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was
  forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer.
  With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to
  follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.
  
  "Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it
  grieves me to see her!  And I declare if she is not gone away without
  finishing her wine!  And the dried cherries too!  Lord! nothing seems
  to do her any good.  I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I
  would send all over the town for it.  Well, it is the oddest thing to
  me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill!  But when there is
  plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless
  you! they care no more about such things!--"
  
  "The lady then--Miss Grey I think you called her--is very rich?"
  
  "Fifty thousand pounds, my dear.  Did you ever see her? a smart,
  stylish girl they say, but not handsome.  I remember her aunt very
  well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man.  But the family
  are all rich together.  Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it
  won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces.  No
  wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters!  Well, it don't
  signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes
  love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly
  off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is
  ready to have him.  Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let
  his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I
  warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters
  came round.  But that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of
  pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age."
  
  "Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is?  Is she said to be
  amiable?"
  
  "I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her
  mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day
  Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would
  not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could
  never agree."--
  
  "And who are the Ellisons?"
  
  "Her guardians, my dear.  But now she is of age and may choose for
  herself; and a pretty choice she has made!--What now," after pausing a
  moment--"your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan
  by herself.  Is there nothing one can get to comfort her?  Poor dear,
  it seems quite cruel to let her be alone.  Well, by-and-by we shall
  have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little.  What shall we
  play at?  She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares
  for?"
  
  "Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary.  Marianne, I dare say,
  will not leave her room again this evening.  I shall persuade her if I
  can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest."
  
  "Aye, I believe that will be best for her.  Let her name her own
  supper, and go to bed.  Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and
  so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been
  hanging over her head as long as that.  And so the letter that came
  today finished it!  Poor soul!  I am sure if I had had a notion of it,
  I would not have joked her about it for all my money.  But then you
  know, how should I guess such a thing?  I made sure of its being
  nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be
  laughed at about them.  Lord!  how concerned Sir John and my daughters
  will be when they hear it!  If I had my senses about me I might have
  called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it.  But I
  shall see them tomorrow."
  
  "It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and
  Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest
  allusion to what has passed, before my sister.  Their own good-nature
  must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing
  about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to
  myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my
  dear madam will easily believe."
  
  "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed.  It must be terrible for you to hear
  it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a
  word about it to her for the world.  You saw I did not all dinner time.
  No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very
  thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I
  certainly will.  For my part, I think the less that is said about such
  things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot.  And what
  does talking ever do you know?"
  
  "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases
  of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for
  the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the
  public conversation.  I must do THIS justice to Mr. Willoughby--he has
  broken no positive engagement with my sister."
  
  "Law, my dear!  Don't pretend to defend him.  No positive engagement
  indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the
  very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"
  
  Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and
  she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though
  Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement
  of the real truth.  After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings,
  with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.
  
  "Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be
  all the better for Colonel Brandon.  He will have her at last; aye,
  that he will.  Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer.  Lord!
  how he'll chuckle over this news!  I hope he will come tonight.  It
  will be all to one a better match for your sister.  Two thousand a year
  without debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I
  had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then
  what does it signify?  Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you;
  exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and
  conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered
  with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in
  one corner!  Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were
  there!  Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a
  very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;
  and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile
  from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit
  up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages
  that pass along.  Oh! 'tis a nice place!  A butcher hard by in the
  village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw.  To my fancy,
  a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to
  send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than
  your mother.  Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can.
  One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down.  If we CAN but
  put Willoughby out of her head!"
  
  "Ay, if we can do THAT, Ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well
  with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to
  join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,
  leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,
  till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.
  
  "You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received
  from her.
  
  "I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this,
  from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first
  refused to do.  Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion,
  however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her
  aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet
  rest before she left her.
  
  In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by
  Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.
  
  "My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have
  some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was
  tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister.  My poor
  husband! how fond he was of it!  Whenever he had a touch of his old
  colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the
  world.  Do take it to your sister."
  
  "Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the
  complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are!  But I have
  just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think
  nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me
  leave, I will drink the wine myself."
  
  Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes
  earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she
  swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a
  colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing
  powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself
  as on her sister.
  
  Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner
  of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that
  he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he
  was already aware of what occasioned her absence.  Mrs. Jennings was
  not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked
  across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered--
  "The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see.  He knows nothing of it;
  do tell him, my dear."
  
  He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look
  which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her
  sister.
  
  "Marianne is not well," said she.  "She has been indisposed all day,
  and we have persuaded her to go to bed."
  
  "Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this morning
  may be--there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at
  first."
  
  "What did you hear?"
  
  "That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short, that a man,
  whom I KNEW to be engaged--but how shall I tell you?  If you know it
  already, as surely you must, I may be spared."
  
  "You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness, "Mr. Willoughby's
  marriage with Miss Grey.  Yes, we DO know it all.  This seems to have
  been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded
  it to us.  Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable!  Where did you hear it?"
  
  "In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business.  Two ladies
  were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other
  an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting
  concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all.  The name
  of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my
  attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing
  was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was
  no longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks,
  with many particulars of preparations and other matters.  One thing,
  especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still
  more:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe
  Magna, his seat in Somersetshire.  My astonishment!--but it would be
  impossible to describe what I felt.  The communicative lady I learnt,
  on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs.
  Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss
  Grey's guardian."
  
  "It is.  But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand
  pounds?  In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation."
  
  "It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least I think"--he stopped
  a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "And
  your sister--how did she--"
  
  "Her sufferings have been very severe.  I have only to hope that they
  may be proportionately short.  It has been, it is a most cruel
  affliction.  Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;
  and even now, perhaps--but I am almost convinced that he never was
  really attached to her.  He has been very deceitful! and, in some
  points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."
  
  "Ah!" said Colonel Brandon, "there is, indeed!  But your sister does
  not--I think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?"
  
  "You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still
  justify him if she could."
  
  He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the
  tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was
  necessarily dropped.  Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure
  while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss
  Dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel
  Brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of
  hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening
  more serious and thoughtful than usual.
  
  
  
  
  From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the
  next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had
  closed her eyes.
  
  Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and
  before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and
  again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on
  Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on
  Marianne's, as before.  Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as
  unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every
  consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.  At one moment she
  was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at
  another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third
  could resist it with energy.  In one thing, however, she was uniform,
  when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the
  presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to
  endure it.  Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs.
  Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.
  
  "No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel.  Her kindness
  is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness.  All that she wants
  is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it."
  
  Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her
  sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable
  refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her
  on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished
  manner.  Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be
  that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an
  excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid.  She expected
  from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she
  judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on
  herself.  Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together
  in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.
  Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own
  weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though
  Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.
  
  With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,
  from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,
  
  "Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good."
  
  Marianne heard enough.  In one moment her imagination placed before her
  a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,
  explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and
  instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room
  to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances
  of his letter.  The work of one moment was destroyed by the next.  The
  hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her;
  and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an
  ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had
  never suffered.
  
  The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her
  moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could
  reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with
  passionate violence--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its
  object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still
  referring her to the letter of comfort.  But the letter, when she was
  calm enough to read it, brought little comfort.  Willoughby filled
  every page.  Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and
  relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by
  Elinor's application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards
  them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection
  for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each
  other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.
  
  All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was
  dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken
  confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone.
  Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne
  to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of
  patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she
  obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.
  
  Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy
  till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;
  and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for
  the rest of the morning.  Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the
  pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne's
  letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then
  sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat
  her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the
  drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table
  where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over
  her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly
  over its effect on her mother.
  
  In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when
  Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was
  startled by a rap at the door.
  
  "Who can this be?" cried Elinor.  "So early too! I thought we HAD been
  safe."
  
  Marianne moved to the window--
  
  "It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation.  "We are never safe
  from HIM."
  
  "He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home."
  
  "I will not trust to THAT," retreating to her own room.  "A man who has
  nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on
  that of others."
  
  The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on
  injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon DID come in; and Elinor, who
  was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who
  saw THAT solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his
  anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister
  for esteeming him so lightly.
  
  "I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he, after the first
  salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more
  easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you
  alone, which I was very desirous of doing.  My object--my wish--my sole
  wish in desiring it--I hope, I believe it is--is to be a means of
  giving comfort;--no, I must not say comfort--not present comfort--but
  conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind.  My regard for
  her, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by
  relating some circumstances which nothing but a VERY sincere
  regard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--I think I am
  justified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing
  myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be
  wrong?" He stopped.
  
  "I understand you," said Elinor.  "You have something to tell me of Mr.
  Willoughby, that will open his character farther.  Your telling it will
  be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn Marianne.  MY
  gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to
  that end, and HERS must be gained by it in time.  Pray, pray let me
  hear it."
  
  "You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,--but
  this will give you no idea--I must go farther back.  You will find me a
  very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin.  A
  short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it SHALL be
  a short one.  On such a subject," sighing heavily, "can I have little
  temptation to be diffuse."
  
  He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went
  on.
  
  "You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be
  supposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation
  between us one evening at Barton Park--it was the evening of a
  dance--in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in
  some measure, your sister Marianne."
  
  "Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have NOT forgotten it." He looked pleased
  by this remembrance, and added,
  
  "If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender
  recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well
  in mind as person.  The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of
  fancy and spirits.  This lady was one of my nearest relations, an
  orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father.  Our
  ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were
  playfellows and friends.  I cannot remember the time when I did not
  love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as
  perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you
  might think me incapable of having ever felt.  Hers, for me, was, I
  believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and
  it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate.  At
  seventeen she was lost to me for ever.  She was married--married
  against her inclination to my brother.  Her fortune was large, and our
  family estate much encumbered.  And this, I fear, is all that can be
  said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.
  My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her.  I had hoped
  that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for
  some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she
  experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though
  she had promised me that nothing--but how blindly I relate!  I have
  never told you how this was brought on.  We were within a few hours of
  eloping together for Scotland.  The treachery, or the folly, of my
  cousin's maid betrayed us.  I was banished to the house of a relation
  far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement,
  till my father's point was gained.  I had depended on her fortitude too
  far, and the blow was a severe one--but had her marriage been happy, so
  young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at
  least I should not have now to lament it.  This however was not the
  case.  My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what
  they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly.
  The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so
  inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural.  She resigned
  herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it
  been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the
  remembrance of me occasioned.  But can we wonder that, with such a
  husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or
  restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their
  marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should
  fall?  Had I remained in England, perhaps--but I meant to promote the
  happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose
  had procured my exchange.  The shock which her marriage had given me,"
  he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling
  weight--was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years
  afterwards, of her divorce.  It was THAT which threw this gloom,--even
  now the recollection of what I suffered--"
  
  He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about
  the room.  Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his
  distress, could not speak.  He saw her concern, and coming to her, took
  her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect.  A few
  minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.
  
  "It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned
  to England.  My first care, when I DID arrive, was of course to seek
  for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy.  I could
  not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to
  fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of
  sin.  Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor
  sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my
  brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months
  before to another person.  He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,
  that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to
  dispose of it for some immediate relief.  At last, however, and after I
  had been six months in England, I DID find her.  Regard for a former
  servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to
  visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and
  there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate
  sister.  So altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering of every
  kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before
  me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom
  I had once doted.  What I endured in so beholding her--but I have no
  right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--I have
  pained you too much already.  That she was, to all appearance, in the
  last stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was my
  greatest comfort.  Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time
  for a better preparation for death; and that was given.  I saw her
  placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited
  her every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her
  last moments."
  
  Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in
  an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.
  
  "Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance
  I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation.  Their
  fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet
  disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier
  marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other
  be.  But to what does all this lead?  I seem to have been distressing
  you for nothing.  Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as this--untouched
  for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at all!  I WILL be
  more collected--more concise.  She left to my care her only child, a
  little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then
  about three years old.  She loved the child, and had always kept it
  with her.  It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I
  have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her
  education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I
  had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at
  school.  I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my
  brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the
  possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford.  I
  called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in
  general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her.  It is now
  three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I
  removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very
  respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four
  or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I
  had every reason to be pleased with her situation.  But last February,
  almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared.  I had allowed
  her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire,
  to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her
  father there for his health.  I knew him to be a very good sort of man,
  and I thought well of his daughter--better than she deserved, for, with
  a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would
  give no clue, though she certainly knew all.  He, her father, a
  well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe,
  give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house,
  while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance
  they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was
  convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the
  business.  In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all
  the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture.  What I
  thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too."
  
  "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be--could Willoughby!"--
  
  "The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a
  letter from herself, last October.  It was forwarded to me from
  Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party
  to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,
  which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,
  and which I believe gave offence to some.  Little did Mr. Willoughby
  imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in
  breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom
  he had made poor and miserable; but HAD he known it, what would it have
  availed?  Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of
  your sister?  No, he had already done that, which no man who CAN feel
  for another would do.  He had left the girl whose youth and innocence
  he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no
  creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address!  He had
  left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor
  relieved her."
  
  "This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor.
  
  "His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than
  both.  Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what
  I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on
  being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt
  for all your sakes.  When I came to you last week and found you alone,
  I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when
  it WAS known.  My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but
  now you will comprehend it.  To suffer you all to be so deceived; to
  see your sister--but what could I do?  I had no hope of interfering
  with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet
  reclaim him.  But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what
  were his designs on her.  Whatever they may have been, however, she may
  now, and hereafter doubtless WILL turn with gratitude towards her own
  condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she
  considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and
  pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as
  strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which
  must attend her through life.  Surely this comparison must have its use
  with her.  She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing.  They
  proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace.  On the
  contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them.
  Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it,
  must strengthen every attachment.  Use your own discretion, however, in
  communicating to her what I have told you.  You must know best what
  will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed
  it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have
  suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family
  afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to
  raise myself at the expense of others."
  
  Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;
  attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to
  Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.
  
  "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him
  than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most
  perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do.  Now, though at first
  she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier.  Have
  you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby
  since you left him at Barton?"
  
  "Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have.  One meeting was unavoidable."
  
  Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,
  
  "What? have you met him to--"
  
  "I could meet him no other way.  Eliza had confessed to me, though most
  reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which
  was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to
  defend, I to punish his conduct.  We returned unwounded, and the
  meeting, therefore, never got abroad."
  
  Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a
  soldier she presumed not to censure it.
  
  "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy
  resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly
  have I discharged my trust!"
  
  "Is she still in town?"
  
  "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near
  her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there
  she remains."
  
  Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor
  from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again
  the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion
  and esteem for him.
  
  
  
  
  When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss
  Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was
  not entirely such as the former had hoped to see.  Not that Marianne
  appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to
  it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither
  objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and
  seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible.  But
  though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt
  WAS carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the
  effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called,
  in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of
  compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently
  irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched.  Her mind did
  become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection.  She felt the
  loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the
  loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the
  misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might ONCE
  have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that
  she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor;
  and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister
  than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent
  confession of them.
  
  To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and
  answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what
  her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly
  less painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than
  Elinor's.  Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other,
  arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her
  anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with
  fortitude under this misfortune.  Bad indeed must the nature of
  Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!
  mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which
  SHE could wish her not to indulge!
  
  Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had
  determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at
  that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be
  bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by
  constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen
  him there.  She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all
  means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which,
  though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at
  least five or six weeks.  A variety of occupations, of objects, and of
  company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable
  there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some
  interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the
  ideas of both might now be spurned by her.
  
  From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her
  to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his
  acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her
  friends.  Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence
  could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in
  its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of
  Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at
  Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first
  as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.
  
  She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where
  they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his
  wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged
  it right that they should sometimes see their brother.
  
  Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she
  submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved
  perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt
  it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by
  requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only
  possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her
  mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent
  her ever knowing a moment's rest.
  
  But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil
  to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other
  hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward
  entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay
  would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better
  for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.
  
  Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's
  name mentioned, was not thrown away.  Marianne, though without knowing
  it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor
  Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.
  Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards
  herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day
  after day to the indignation of them all.
  
  Sir John, could not have thought it possible.  "A man of whom he had
  always had such reason to think well!  Such a good-natured fellow!  He
  did not believe there was a bolder rider in England!  It was an
  unaccountable business.  He wished him at the devil with all his heart.
  He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for
  all the world!  No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,
  and they were kept watching for two hours together.  Such a scoundrel
  of a fellow! such a deceitful dog!  It was only the last time they met
  that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end of
  it!"
  
  Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry.  "She was determined to
  drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she
  had never been acquainted with him at all.  She wished with all her
  heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify,
  for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much
  that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should
  tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was."
  
  The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the
  particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating
  them to Elinor.  She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new
  carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was
  drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.
  
  The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a
  happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the
  clamorous kindness of the others.  It was a great comfort to her to be
  sure of exciting no interest in ONE person at least among their circle
  of friends: a great comfort to know that there was ONE who would meet
  her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for
  her sister's health.
  
  Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the
  moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down
  by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to
  comfort than good-nature.
  
  Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,
  or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very
  shocking, indeed!" and by the means of this continual though gentle
  vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first
  without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without
  recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the
  dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was
  wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the
  interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather
  against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once
  be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon
  as she married.
  
  Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome
  to Miss Dashwood.  He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate
  discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with
  which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with
  confidence.  His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing
  past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye
  with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her
  voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or
  could oblige herself to speak to him.  THESE assured him that his
  exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and
  THESE gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but
  Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the
  Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail
  on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for
  him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of
  Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of
  a week that it would not be a match at all.  The good understanding
  between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the
  honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all
  be made over to HER; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to
  think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.
  
  Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's
  letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he
  was married.  She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to
  herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was
  desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from
  the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.
  
  She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on
  it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst
  out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less
  pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.
  
  The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now
  hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to
  prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow
  first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.
  
  About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's
  house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again
  before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and
  were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.
  
  Elinor only was sorry to see them.  Their presence always gave her
  pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the
  overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her STILL in town.
  
  "I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here
  STILL," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.  "But
  I always thought I SHOULD.  I was almost sure you would not leave
  London yet awhile; though you TOLD me, you know, at Barton, that you
  should not stay above a MONTH.  But I thought, at the time, that you
  would most likely change your mind when it came to the point.  It would
  have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and
  sister came.  And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone.  I
  am amazingly glad you did not keep to YOUR WORD."
  
  Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her
  self-command to make it appear that she did NOT.
  
  "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?"
  
  "Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick
  exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to
  attend us.  Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join
  him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or
  twelve shillings more than we did."
  
  "Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is
  a single man, I warrant you."
  
  "There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs
  at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why.  My cousins say they
  are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never
  think about him from one hour's end to another.  'Lord! here comes your
  beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the
  street to the house.  My beau, indeed! said I--I cannot think who you
  mean.  The Doctor is no beau of mine."
  
  "Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the Doctor is
  the man, I see."
  
  "No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I beg
  you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."
  
  Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she
  certainly would NOT, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.
  
  "I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss
  Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a
  cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.
  
  "No, I do not think we shall."
  
  "Oh, yes, I dare say you will."
  
  Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
  
  "What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for
  so long a time together!"
  
  "Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings.  "Why, their visit is
  but just begun!"
  
  Lucy was silenced.
  
  "I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss
  Steele.  "I am sorry she is not well--" for Marianne had left the room
  on their arrival.
  
  "You are very good.  My sister will be equally sorry to miss the
  pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with
  nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."
  
  "Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and
  me!--I think she might see US; and I am sure we would not speak a word."
  
  Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal.  Her sister was
  perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore
  not able to come to them.
  
  "Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see
  HER."
  
  Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she
  was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which
  now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the
  manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapters 28-32
target: Elinor and Marianne are obliged to accompany Lady Middleton to a party in town, even though Marianne is far too melancholic to enjoy dancing or card games. Suddenly, Marianne catches sight of Willoughby among the crowd and rushes forth to greet him. She is astonished and deeply distressed when he avoids her eye and appears absorbed in conversation with another young lady. When she finally approaches him directly, he coldly remarks that he indeed received her letters but never found her at home when he attempted to visit her in reply. Marianne must leave the party immediately with her sisters, for she is too overcome by grief to do anything but climb into bed. The next day, after breakfast, Marianne shares with Elinor a letter she has just received from Willoughby. In his letter, Willoughby apologizes for anything in his conduct at the party that might have offended her. He expresses his esteem for the entire Dashwood family and regrets if he ever gave Marianne any reason to believe that he felt differently for her. Finally, he informs her of his upcoming engagement to another woman and encloses in his letter the three notes that she sent him in London. To Elinor's dismay, all of Marianne's notes were urgent pleas for Willoughby to come visit her at Mrs. Jennings's home, even though, as Marianne confesses, they were never formally engaged to one another. Elinor can hardly believe that Marianne could be so forward in her affections when she and Willoughby were not even engaged, but she nevertheless tries to comfort her sister with gentle words, wine, and lavender drops. Marianne tells her sister that she wants to leave London immediately, but Elinor reminds her that it would be rude to leave Mrs. Jennings after such a short visit. Mrs. Jennings tries to comfort Marianne but says all the wrong things. She remarks to Elinor that her sister looks "very bad" and that she should realize that Willoughby "is not the only young man in the world worth having." She also invites guests to dinner in order to amuse Marianne, but even her sweetmeats and olives cannot lift the girl's spirits. Marianne leaves the table early, but Elinor remains to hear Mrs. Jennings and her friends discuss how Willoughby squandered all his fortune and therefore abruptly proposed to Miss Sophia Grey, a wealthy heiress. Mrs. Jennings tells Elinor that now it will only be a matter of time before Marianne marries Colonel Brandon. While the party takes after-dinner tea, Colonel Brandon arrives to speak with Elinor. He fears that the rumor he heard in town about Willoughby's engagement to Miss Grey might be true, and Elinor confirms his fears. The next day, he visits once again to share with Elinor the sad story of his own romantic history, in the interest of shedding light on Marianne's predicament: he explains that he was once deeply in love with a woman named Eliza, but she was married against his inclination to his brother so as to ensure her fortune for the family. Brandon's brother treated her very unkindly, and she deceived him; ultimately, the couple divorced, and she disappeared. Colonel Brandon, formerly her lover and then her brother-in-law, at last found her dying of consumption in a sponging house  in London. He cared for her until her death and promised to take care of her three-year-old daughter. Willoughby placed the young girl in school, and she visited him periodically. Then, about a year earlier, she suddenly disappeared. The following October--the day of the intended picnic to Whitwell, which takes place earlier in the book--he received the news that she had been seduced and abandoned by none other than John Willoughby! He explains that this is why he had to rush off to London on the day of their planned outing. Elinor shares Colonel Brandon's story with Marianne and Marianne mourns the loss of Willoughby's "good" character just as she mourned the loss of him to another woman. The sisters also receive a note from their mother expressing her shock and pain at the news of Willoughby's betrayal. Nonetheless, Mrs. Dashwood urges her daughters to stay in town, especially since their half-brother John Dashwood and his wife Fanny will be arriving there shortly. Meanwhile, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, Lady Middleton, and the Steele sisters also offer words of sympathy to the Dashwood sisters, though their concern is more for themselves than for Marianne: Lady Middleton, for example, expresses outrage at Willoughby's behavior but then arranges to leave her card with Miss Grey since she will be an elegant and wealthy woman when she marries John Willoughby. Only the sympathy of Elinor, Mrs. Dashwood, and Colonel Brandon is entirely genuine and well-intentioned.
feat_summary_analysis: Commentary Although Austen makes reference throughout the novel to letters sent from one character to another, Chapter 29 is exceptional because it includes the full text of four letters sent between Willoughby and Marianne. Chapter 29 perhaps most closely resembles Austen's original 1795 manuscript for the book, which was conceived as an epistolary novel entitled Elinor and Marianne. It wasn't until at least four years later that Austen rewrote these letters with narration. Elinor feels that Willoughby's letter proclaims him to be "deep in hardened villainy." Indeed, Willoughby is only one in a long line of Austen's male villains, including George Wickham , Henry Crawford . All of Austen's villains are tricksters, who initially seem charming, attractive, and witty. Some, like Frank Churchill, turn out to be fibbers and play-actors while others, like George Wickham, are downright frauds. However, Willoughby is both: he is a glamorous seducer as well as a corrupt philanderer. He is not just impetuous but also callous; he is not just insensitive but also vicious. As a result, it is not difficult to see how he can capture Marianne's heart without ever fully winning Elinor's confidence. The contrast between Elinor and Marianne is perhaps made most explicit in their reactions to their lovers' seemingly insensitive treatment. Whereas Elinor is relieved that she does not have to share Lucy's news about Edward with her mother and sister, Marianne insists through her grief that "I care not who knows that I am wretched." Her attempt to claim intimacy with Willoughby at the party dramatizes the dangers of showing one's feelings publicly and contrasts strikingly with Elinor's more cautious restraint. Colonel Brandon's own personal story of his relationship with Eliza Williams and her daughter elaborately echoes Marianne's relationship with Willoughby. The details of Brandon's story parallel all of the plots of the novel, including that of the insensitive parent's commitment to primogeniture, of brothers who cannot see eye-to-eye, and of women whose hearts are broken by the men they love. However, Brandon's dramatic story also includes divorce, seduction, illegitimate birth, and even a duel, all of which are extreme consequences of the emotions and situations that Marianne Dashwood must confront. Though Brandon comments that he is a "very awkward narrator," his story-within-a-story actually sheds light on many of the most important themes of the novel.