to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet
aware that by declining your invitation, by saying
that he was going away for some time, he should seem
to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family,
he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case,
a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been
more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent
with his general character;--but I will not raise objections
against any one's conduct on so illiberal a foundation,
as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from
what I may think right and consistent."

"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does
not deserve to be suspected. Though WE have not known
him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world;
and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been
in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,
it might have been odd that he should leave us without
acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case.
It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun,
for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance;
and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now
be very advisable."

They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret;
and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations
of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many,
and hope for the justice of all.

They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time,
when she entered the room and took her place at the table
without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen;
and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained
with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all,
could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her
mother's silently pressing her hand with tender compassion,
her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst
into tears and left the room.

This violent oppression of spirits continued the
whole evening. She was without any power, because she
was without any desire of command over herself.
The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby
overpowered her in an instant; and though her family
were most anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was
impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear
of every subject which her feelings connected with him.



CHAPTER 16


Marianne 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 pianoforte
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,


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