CHAPTER XVI

arianne would have thought herself very inexcusable

had she been able to sleep at all the first night after

parting from Willoughby. She would have been

ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she

not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay

down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a

disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She 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 at 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 that she had been used to play to

Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest

joined, 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

farther sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was

every day applied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforté

alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally suspended

by her tears. In books too, as well as in music, 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 for

ever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these

employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and

silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as

lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by

Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became

uneasy. But Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations whenever she

wanted them, which at least satisfied herself.

"Remember, Elinor," 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 their

correspondence were to pass through Sir John's hands."

Elinor 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, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real

state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she

could not help suggesting it to her mother.

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she

is or she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and

so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.

It would be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to

be all unreserve, and to you more especially."

"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it

possible that they are not engaged, what distress would not such

an inquiry inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I

should never deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her

a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to

any one. I know Marianne's heart: I know that 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. I

would not attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child

much less; because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which

her wishes might direct."

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her

sister's youth, and urged the matter farther, 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 witticisms 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

Elinor 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 on to join her sisters in their usual walk,

instead of wandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully

avoided every companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to

walk on the downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if

they talked of the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills,

and could never be found when the others set off. But at length

she was secured by the exertions of Elinor, who greatly

disapproved such continual seclusion. They walked along the road

through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's mind

could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with gaining one

point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the

valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and more

open, 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, and examine a prospect which

formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot

which they had never happened to reach in any of their walks

before.

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an

animated one; it was 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!"―and was hastening to

meet him, when Elinor 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

air."

"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has. His air, his

coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come."

She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen

Marianne from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not

being Willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her. They

were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman. 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; the only one who could have

gained a smile from her; 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, whither he was purposely coming to

visit them.

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but

especially by Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in

her reception of him than even Elinor herself. To Marianne,

indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister was but a

continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often

observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour. 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 was confused, seemed

scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither

rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by

questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.

Marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise. She began

almost to feel a dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling

must end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby,

whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of

his brother elect.

After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and

inquiries of meeting, 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 Elinor without seeing her before.

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been

staying with some friends near Plymouth.

"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor.

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne.

"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it

always does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly

covered with dead leaves."

"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I

formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see

them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have

they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one

to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off,

and driven as much as possible from the sight."

"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for

dead leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood.

But sometimes they are."―As she said this, she sunk into a reverie

for a few moments;―but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward,"

said she, calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton

valley. Look up to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills!

Did you ever see their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst

those woods and plantations. You may see the end of the house.

And there, beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such

grandeur, is our cottage."

"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 neighbourhood 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? How can

you be so unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars;

and towards us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you

forgot, Marianne, how many pleasant days we have owed to

them?"

"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful

moments."

Elinor took no notice of this, and directing her attention to their

visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him,

by talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c.

extorting from him occasional questions and remarks. His

coldness and reserve mortified her severely; she was vexed and

half angry; but resolving to regulate her behaviour to him by the

past rather than the present, she avoided every appearance of

resentment or displeasure, and treated him as she thought he

ought to be treated from the family connection.
关键字:理智与情感
生词表: