SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen

Elinor’s uneasiness was at least equal to her mother’s.

She thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust.

Willoughby’s behaviour in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother’s invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister;–the distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne’s love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.

But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister’s affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty.

In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncheerful.

“Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,”

said she, as she sat down to work, “and with how heavy a heart does he travel?”

“It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice–Gone too without intending to return!–Something more than what be owned to us must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. YOU must have seen the difference as well as I.

What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept your invitation here?”–

“It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see THAT. He had not the power of accepting it.

I have thought it all over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as to you.”

“Can you, indeed!”

“Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most

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satisfactory way;–but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can–it will not satisfy YOU, I know; but you shall not talk ME out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that account is eager to get him away;–

and that the business which she sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware that she DOES disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory at this.

And now, Elinor, what have you to say?”

“Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.”

“Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened. Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take evil upon credit than good.

You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter.

You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?”