16/17 Sense And Sensibility - Stephanie Poppins

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen.

Chapter 16.

Marianne was awake the whole night and she wept the greatest part of it.

She got up with a headache,

Was unable to talk and unwilling to take any nourishment,

Giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters and forbidding all attempt to consolation from either.

Her sensibility was potent enough.

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself and wandered about the village of Allenham,

Indulging the recollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.

She played over every favourite song she had used to play to Willoughby and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her till her heart was so heavy that no further sadness could be gained.

And this nourishment of grief was every day applied.

In books too she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving.

She read nothing but what they had been used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported forever.

It sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy but these employments,

To which she daily recurred,

Still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.

As lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came and none seemed expected by Mary Han.

Eleanor again became uneasy but Mrs.

Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them,

Which at least satisfied herself.

Remember,

Eleanor,

Said she,

How very often Sir John fetches our letters himself from the post and carries them to it.

We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if the correspondence were to pass through Sir John's hands.

Eleanor could not deny the truth of this and she tried to find in it a motive sufficient for their silence but there was one method so direct,

So simple,

That she could not help suggesting it to her mother.

Why do you not ask Marianne at once,

Said she,

Whether she is or is not engaged to Willoughby?

I would not ask such a question for the world.

Supposing it possible they are not engaged,

What distress would not such an inquiry inflict?

I know Marianne's heart.

I know she dearly loves me and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible.

Eleanor thought this generosity overstrained,

Considering her sister's youth and urged the matter further,

But in vain.

Common sense,

Common care,

Common prudence were all sunk in Mrs Dashwood's romantic delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before Marianne by any of her family.

Sir John and Mrs Jennings,

Indeed,

Were not so nice.

Their criticisms added pain to many a painful hour,

But one evening Mrs Dashwood,

Accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare,

Exclaimed,

We have never finished Hamlet,

Marianne.

Our dear Willoughby went away before we could get through it.

We will put it by,

That when he comes again,

But it may be months,

Perhaps,

Before that happens.

Months,

Cried Marianne with strong surprise.

No,

Nor many weeks.

Mrs Dashwood was sorry for what she had said,

But it gave Eleanor pleasure as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.

One morning,

About a week after his leaving the country,

Marianne was prevailed upon to join her sisters in their usual walk,

Instead of wandering away by herself.

They walked along the road through the valley and chiefly in silence,

But Marianne's mind could not be controlled and Eleanor,

Satisfied with gaining one point,

Would not then attempt more.

A long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first coming to Barton,

Lay before them and on reaching that point,

They stopped to look around them.

Amongst the objects in the scene,

They soon discovered a man on horseback riding towards them.

In a few minutes,

They could distinguish him to be a gentleman and in a moment afterwards,

Marianne rapturously exclaimed,

It is he,

It is indeed,

I know it is.

She was hastening to meet him when Eleanor cried out,

Indeed Marianne,

I think you are mistaken,

It is not Willoughby,

The person is not tall enough for him and has not his heir.

He has,

He has,

Cried Marianne,

His heir,

His coat,

His horse,

I knew how soon he would come.

She walked eagerly on as she spoke and Eleanor quickened her pace and kept up with her.

Marianne looked again,

Her heart sunk within her and abruptly turning round,

She was hurrying back when the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her.

A third,

Almost as well known as Willoughby's,

Joined them in begging her to stop and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be forgiven for not being Willoughby but she dispersed her tears to smile on him and in her sister's happiness,

Forgot for a time her own disappointment.

He dismounted and giving his horse to his servant,

Walked back with them to Barton whether he was purposely coming to visit them.

He was welcomed by them with all great cordiality but especially by Marianne who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than even Eleanor herself.

To Marianne indeed the meeting between Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which he had often observed in Norland in their mutual behavior.

On Edward's side more particularly there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion.

He seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them,

Said little,

But was forced from him by questions and distinguished Eleanor by no mark of affection.

Marianne had almost began to feel a dislike of Edward and it ended by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother-elect.

After a short silence Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London.

No,

He had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

A fortnight,

She repeated,

Surprised at his being so long in the same county with Eleanor without seeing her before.

He looked rather distressed as he added he had been staying with some friends near Plymouth.

Have you been lately in Sussex?

Said Eleanor.

I was in Norland about a month ago.

And how does dear dear Norland look?

Cried Marianne.

Dear dear Norland,

Said Eleanor,

Probably looks just as much as it always does at this time of the year,

The woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves.

Oh,

Cried Marianne,

What with transporting sensations have I formerly seen them for?

How have I delighted as I walk to see them driven in showers about me by the wind?

It is not everyone,

Said Eleanor,

Who has your passion for dead leaves.

No,

My feelings are not often shared,

Not often understood,

But sometimes they are.

Marianne sank into reverie for a few moments,

But rousing herself again said,

Now Edward,

Look at those hills,

Did you ever see their equals?

It is a beautiful country,

He replied,

But these bottoms must be dirty in winter.

How can you think of dirt with such objects before you?

Because,

Replied he,

Smiling,

Among the rest of the objects before me,

I see a very dirty lane.

How strange,

Said Marianne to herself,

As she walked on.

Have you an agreeable neighborhood here?

Are the Middletons pleasant people?

No,

Not at all,

Answered Marianne.

We could not be more unfortunately situated.

Marianne,

Cried her sister,

How can you say so?

Have you forgot,

Marianne,

How many pleasant days we've had owed to them?

No,

Said Marianne in a low voice,

Nor how many painful moments.

Eleanor took no notice of this and directed her attention to their visitor.

His coldness and reserve mortified her severely,

But she avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure,

And treated him as she thought he ought to be treated,

From the family connection.

Chapter 17.

Mrs.

Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him.

He received the kindness welcome from her,

And shyness,

Coldness,

Reserve,

Could not stand against such a reception.

Indeed,

A man could not very well be in love with either of her daughters without extending the passion to her,

And Eleanor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like himself.

He praised their house,

Admired its prospects,

Was attentive and kind,

But still he was not in spirits.

The whole family perceived it,

And Mrs.

Dashwood,

Attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother,

Sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents.

What are Mrs.

Ferrer's views for you at present,

Edward?

Said she.

Are you still to be a great orator in spite of yourself?

No,

I hope my mother is now convinced I have no more talents than inclination for a public life.

You have no ambition,

I well know,

Your wishes are all moderate.

As moderate as those of the rest of the world,

I believe.

I wish as well as everybody else to be perfectly happy,

But like everybody else it must be in my own way.

Greatness will not make me so,

Said Edward.

Strange if it would,

Cried Marianne,

What have wealth or grandeur to do with happiness?

Grandeur has but little,

Said Eleanor,

But wealth has much to do with it.

Eleanor,

For shame,

Said Marianne,

Money can only give happiness when there's nothing else to give it.

Beyond a competence it can afford no real satisfaction as far as me self is concerned.

Perhaps,

Said Eleanor smiling,

We may come to the same point.

Your competence and my wealth are very much alike,

I dare say,

And without them,

As the world goes now,

We shall both agree that every kind of external comfort must be wanting.

Come,

What is your competence?

About eight hundred or two thousand a year,

Not more than that,

Said Marianne.

Eleanor laughed,

Two thousand a year,

One is my wealth.

I guessed how it would end.

And yet two thousand a year is a very moderate income,

Said Marianne.

A proper establishment of servants,

A carriage perhaps two,

And hunters cannot be supported on less.

Eleanor smiled again to hear her sister was describing so accurately their future expenses at Coombe Magna.

Hunters,

Repeated Edward,

But why must you have hunters?

Everybody does not hunt.

Marianne coloured as she replied,

But most people do.

I wish,

Said Margaret,

Striking out a novel thought,

That somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece.

Oh that they would,

Cried Marianne,

Her eyes sparkling with animation.

I should be puzzled to spend a large fortune myself,

Said Mrs.

Dashwood,

If my children were all to be rich without my help.

You may begin your improvements on this house,

Observed Eleanor,

And your difficulties will soon vanish.

What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,

Said Edward,

In such an event.

What a happy day for booksellers,

Music sellers,

And print shops.

You,

Miss Dashwood,

Would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent to you.

And as for Marianne,

I know her greatness of soul.

There would not be music enough in London to content her.

And books.

Thompson,

Cowper,

Scott.

She would buy them all over and over again,

Should you not,

Marianne.

Forgive me if I am very saucy,

But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes.

I love to be reminded of the past,

Edward.

You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent.

Some of it at least,

My loose cash,

Would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books,

Said Marianne.

And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the author or their heirs.

No,

Edward,

I should have something else to do with it.

Perhaps then you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defense of your favorite Maxim,

That no one can ever be in love more than once in their life.

For your opinion on that point is unchanged,

I assume.

Undoubtedly,

At my time of life,

Opinions are tolerably fixed.

Marianne is as steadfast as ever you see,

Said Eleanor.

She has only grown a little more grave than she was,

Said Edward.

Nay,

Said Marianne,

You need not reproach me.

You are not very gay yourself.

Why should you think so,

Replied he with a sigh.

But gaiety never was a part of my character.

Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's,

Said Eleanor.

I should hardly call her a lively girl.

She is very earnest,

Very eager in all she does,

But she is not often really merry.

I believe you are right,

He replied,

And yet I have always set her down as a lively girl.

I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,

Said Eleanor,

In a total misapprehension of character in some point or another.

Sometimes one is guided by what people say of themselves,

And very frequently by what other people say of them,

Without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.

But I thought it was right,

Eleanor,

Said Marianne,

To be guided wholly by the opinion of other people.

I thought our judgments were giving us merely to be subservient to those of our neighbors.

This has always been your doctrine,

I'm sure.

No,

Marianne,

Never,

Said Eleanor.

My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding.

All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behavior.

I'm guilty,

I confess,

Of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention.

But when have I advised you to conform to their judgment in serious matters?

You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,

Said Edward to Eleanor.

Do you gain no ground?

Quite the contrary,

Replied Eleanor,

Looking expressively at Marianne.

My judgment,

He returned,

Is all on your side of the question,

But I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.

I never wish to offend,

But I'm so foolishly shy,

I often seem negligent,

When I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness.

Marianne is not shyless to excuse any inattention of hers,

Said Eleanor.

She knows her own words too well for false shame,

Replied Edward.

Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or another.

If I could persuade myself my manners were perfectly easy and graceful,

I should not be shy.

But you would still be reserved,

Said Marianne,

And that is worse.

I do not understand you,

Replied he,

Colouring.

Reserved?

How?

In what manner?

What am I to tell you?

What can you suppose?

Eleanor looked surprised at his emotion,

But trying to laugh off the subject,

She said to him,

Do not you know she calls everyone reserved who does not talk as fast and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?

Edward made no answer.

His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent,

And he sat for some time,

Silent and dull.