CHAPTER VIII

rs. 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 acquaintan ce 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 continualrepetition 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 to-day 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 her's, and, with a

look which perfectlyassured 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

positiveassertion 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.
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