บทที่ บทที่ 30 · Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without

. 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

good 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.