Before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sungained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, onlyhalf dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sakeof all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fastas a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceivedher; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,

"Marianne, may I ask --?"

"No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all."

The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted nolonger than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a returnof the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she couldgo on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which stillobliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough ofher feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for thelast time to Willoughby.

Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; andshe would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had notMarianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervousirritability, not to speak to her for the world. In suchcircumstances, it was better for both that they should not be longtogether; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only preventedher from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, butrequiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made herwander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of everybody.

As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted aconsiderable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered toMarianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of adeath-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw asplainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must comefrom Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made herhardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour asmade her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice. That goodlady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter fromWilloughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which shetreated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it toher liking. Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed inmeasuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; andcalmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,

At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; andElinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not inpitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring toengage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself.

"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in mylife! MY girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolishenough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. Ihope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting muchlonger, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?"

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourselfinto a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? Ithought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems toimply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceiveyourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise memore than to hear of their being going to be married."

"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don't weall know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears inlove with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I seethem together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not Iknow that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy weddingclothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about ityourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no suchthing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever solong. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte."

"Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, andyou will find that you have though you will not believe me now."

Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurriedaway to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Mariannestretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but withoutsaying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissedher affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst oftears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. Thelatter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness ofthis behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, sheput all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her facewith her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knewthat such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have itscourse, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spentitself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read asfollows:

MY DEAR MADAM,

"Bond Street, January."

"I have just had the honour of receiving yourletter, for which I beg to return my sincereacknowledgments. I am much concerned to find therewas anything in my behaviour last night that didnot meet your approbation; and though I am quite ata loss to discover in what point I could be sounfortunate as to offend you, I entreat yourforgiveness of what I can assure you to have beenperfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect onmy former acquaintance with your family in Devonshirewithout the most grateful pleasure, and flattermyself it will not be broken by any mistake ormisapprehension of my actions. My esteem for yourwhole family is very sincere; but if I have been sounfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more thanI felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myselffor not having been more guarded in my professionsof that esteem. That I should ever have meant moreyou will allow to be impossible, when you understandthat my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, beforethis engagement is fulfilled. It is with greatregret that I obey your commands in returning theletters with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowedon me.

She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then readit again and again; but every perusal only served to increase herabhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might woundMarianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss toher of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and mostirremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipledman, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.

With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by MissDashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that itmust bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm theirseparation for ever, she was not aware that such language could besuffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capableof departing so far from the appearance of every honourable anddelicate feeling-so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as tosend a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringingwith his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged nobreach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever-a letter ofwhich every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to bedeep in hardened villainy.

Your most obedient"humble servant,"JOHN WILLOUGHBY."

In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on thedepravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on thevery different mind of a very different person, who had no otherconnection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him withevery thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of hersister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and soentirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearinga carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see whocould be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment toperceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been orderedtill one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless ofcontributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuseherself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister beingindisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern forits cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeingher safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to risefrom the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her fromfalling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper restand food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and manynights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longersupported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this wasfelt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervousfaintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express somesense of her kindness, by saying,

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief insilence.

"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I COULD do, which might be of comfort to you."

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I ammiserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.

"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if Idistress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so. Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk ofexertion! Happy, happy Elinor, YOU cannot have an idea of what Isuffer."

"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not killyourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of hermisery while YOU suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."

"Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!"

"Do you call ME happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew! -- And can you believeme to be so, while I see you so wretched!"

"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "Iknow you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet youare-you must be happy; Edward loves you-what, oh what, can do awaysuch happiness as that?"

"No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. YouCAN have no grief."

"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state."

"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothingcan do away."

"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly.

"You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Isyour loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as yousuffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery ofhis character had been delayed to a later period-if your engagementhad been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappyconfidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful."

"Engagement!" cried Marianne, "there has been no engagement."

"No engagement!"

"But he told you that he loved you."

"Yes-no-never absolutely. It was every day implied, but neverprofessedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been-but it neverwas."

"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faithwith me."

"Yes-could that be wrong after all that had passed? -- But I cannottalk."

Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which nowraised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over thecontents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him ontheir arrival in town, was to this effect.

"Yet you wrote to him?" --

"M. D."

"I cannot express my disappointment in havingmissed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishmentat not having received any answer to a note whichI sent you above a week ago. I have been expectingto hear from you, and still more to see you, everyhour of the day. Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected thisin vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. We were lastnight at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of theparty. But could it be so? You must be very muchaltered indeed since we parted, if that could bethe case, and you not there. But I will not supposethis possible, and I hope very soon to receive yourpersonal assurance of its being otherwise.

Berkeley Street, January.

"How surprised you will be, Willoughby, onreceiving this; and I think you will feel somethingmore than surprise, when you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come hereto-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rateI shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.

Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the danceat the Middletons', was in these words: --

The contents of her last note to him were these: --

"M. D."

"What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by yourbehaviour last night? Again I demand an explanationof it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasurewhich our separation naturally produced, with thefamiliarity which our intimacy at Barton appearedto me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I havepassed a wretched night in endeavouring to excusea conduct which can scarcely be called less thaninsulting; but though I have not yet been able toform any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification ofit. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposelydeceived, in something concerning me, which may havelowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shallbe satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. Itwould grieve me indeed to be obliged to think illof you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn thatyou are not what we have hitherto believed you, thatyour regard for us all was insincere, that yourbehaviour to me was intended only to deceive, letit be told as soon as possible. My feelings are atpresent in a state of dreadful indecision; I wishto acquit you, but certainty on either side will beease to what I now suffer. If your sentiments areno longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.

"M. D."

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have beenso answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwillingto believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to theimpropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silentlygrieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofsof tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severelycondemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finishedthe letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what anyone would have written in the same situation.

"I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as ifthe strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other."

"He DID feel the same, Elinor-for weeks and weeks he felt it. I knowhe did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but theblackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dearto him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he canso readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnestsupplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard hisvoice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our beingtogether at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told methat it might be many weeks before we met again-his distress-can Iever forget his distress?"

"I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel thesame."

"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby."

"Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have beeninstigated?"

Elinor would not contend, and only replied, "Whoever may have been sodetestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your owninnocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is areasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence."

For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion hadpassed away, she added, in a firmer tone,

"By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could ratherbelieve every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin mein his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. Thiswoman of whom he writes-whoever she be-or any one, in short, but yourown dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would notrather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?"

"But for my mother's sake and mine --"

Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walkingthoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerningobjects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took upWilloughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed --

"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours! Cruel, cruel-nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whateverhe might have heard against me-ought he not to have suspended hisbelief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the powerof clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,) which you so obligingly bestowed on me' -- That is unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh, barbarously insolent! -- Elinor, can he be justified?"

"No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. I carenot who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may beopen to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may beproud and independent as they like-may resist insult, or returnmortification-but I cannot. I must feel-I must be wretched-and theyare welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can."

"I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am somiserable-Oh! who can require it?"

"And yet this woman-who knows what her art may have been? -- how long itmay have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her! -- Who isshe? -- Who can she be? -- Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young andattractive among his female acquaintance? -- Oh! no one, no one-hetalked to me only of myself."

Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.

"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we begone to-morrow?"

"No, Marianne, in no possible way."

"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake-andnow who cares for me? Who regards me?"

"To-morrow, Marianne!"

"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much morethan civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such ahasty removal as that."

"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, Icannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Palmers-how am I to bear their pity? The pity ofsuch a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would HE say to that!"

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; butno attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and bodyshe moved from one posture to another, till growing more and morehysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed atall, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call forassistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at lengthpersuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jenningsreturned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.