CHAPTER VI.
Nothing occurred during the next three or
four days to make Elinor regret what she had done, in applying to
her mother; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They were
engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Middleton to a
party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the indisposition
of her youngest daughter; and for this party Marianne, wholly
dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming equally
indifferent whether she went or stayed, prepared, without one look
of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room
fire after tea till the moment of Lady Middleton’s arrival, without
once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her
own thoughts, and insensible of her sister’s presence; and when at
last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the
door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was
expected.
They arrived in due time at the place of
destination; and as soon as the string of carriages before them
would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names
announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice,
and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and
insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by
courtesying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle
in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience to
which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in
saying little and doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino;
and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor
luckily succeeding to chairs placed themselves at no great distance
from the table.
They had not remained in this manner long, before
Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them,
in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young
woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but
without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though
he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the
same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether
it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived
him; and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she
would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught
hold of her.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “he is there—he is
there!—Oh, why does he not look at me? Why cannot I speak to
him?”
“Pray, pray be composed,” cried Elinor, “and do not
betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not
observed you yet.”
This, however, was more than she could believe
herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond
the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony
of impatience which affected every feature.
At last he turned round again, and regarded them
both: she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of
affection, held out her hand to him. He approached; and addressing
himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her
eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, enquired, in a
hurried manner, after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had
been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an
address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her
sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and
she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, “Good God!
Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my
letters? Will you not shake hands with me?”
He could not then avoid it; but her touch seemed
painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all
this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched
his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil.
After a moment’s pause, he spoke with calmness.
“I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley
Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not
fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My
card was not lost, I hope.”
“But have you not received my notes?” cried
Marianne in the wildest anxiety. “Here is some mistake, I am
sure—some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me,
Willoughby; for Heaven’s sake tell me; what is the matter?”
He made no reply: his complexion changed, and all
his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the
young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the
necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and
after saying, “Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information
of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me,”
turned hastily away with a slight bow, and joined his friend.
Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable
to stand, sunk into her chair; and Elinor, expecting every moment
to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of
others, while reviving her with lavender water.
“Go to him, Elinor,” she cried, as soon as she
could speak, “and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him
again—must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest—I shall not have a
moment’s peace till this is explained—some dreadful misapprehension
or other. Oh, go to him this moment.”
“How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you
must wait. This is not a place for explanations. Wait only till
tomorrow.”
With difficulty, however, could she prevent her
from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her
agitation, to wait, at least with the appearance of composure, till
she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was
impossible, for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low
voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of
wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room
by the door towards the staircase; and telling Marianne that he was
gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that
evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly
begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home,
as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer.
Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber,
on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to
object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her
cards to a friend, they departed as soon as the carriage could be
found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley
Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for
tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could
go directly to their own room, where hartshorno
restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in
bed; and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then
left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had
leisure enough for thinking over the past.
That some kind of engagement had subsisted between
Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby
was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might
still feed her own wishes, she could not attribute such
behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a
thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation
would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed
that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own
misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as
to have been sport ing with the affections of her sister from the
first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence
might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have
determined him to overcome it; but that such a regard had formerly
existed she could not bring herself to doubt.
As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a
meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe
which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not
reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in
the comparison; for while she could esteem Edward as much as
ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be
always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such
an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a
final separation from Willoughby—in an immediate and irreconcilable
rupture with him.