Sleep, the first night, would have been a disgrace. Marianne stays awake and weeps the greatest part of it. She rises with a headache, unable to talk, unwilling to eat, and she forbids every attempt at consolation. She walks alone about Allenham. In the evening she plays every favourite song she used to play to Willoughby, gazes at the music he wrote out for her, and reads nothing but what they used to read together. This nourishment of grief is applied every day. No letter comes, and none seems expected. Mrs. Dashwood explains it. Sir John fetches their letters, and secrecy could not survive his hands. Elinor names the direct method. Ask Marianne whether she is engaged. From so kind a mother the question could not give offence. Mrs. Dashwood would not ask it for the world. It would force a confession, and she would never deserve the confidence again. Elinor thinks the generosity overstrained. One evening the unfinished Hamlet may wait months. Months, cries Marianne. No, nor many weeks.
A week after he left, she walks with her sisters. A man on horseback rides toward them. It is he, she cries, and hastens to meet him. Elinor says the person is not tall enough, and has not Willoughby's air. His air, his coat, his horse, Marianne insists. She knew how soon he would come. Within thirty yards she looks again. Her heart sinks. She turns. A third voice begs her to stop. It is Edward Ferrars, the only person who could, at that moment, be forgiven for not being Willoughby. She disperses her tears to smile on him.
He has been in Devonshire a fortnight, near Plymouth, and has not come until now. Norland, a month ago, is thick with dead leaves. Marianne remembers them driven in showers about her. Now they are swept off as a nuisance. Sometimes, she says, her feelings are shared. She tells him to look at Barton valley and be tranquil if he can. It is a beautiful country, he replies, but the bottoms must be dirty in winter, because among the objects before him he sees a very dirty lane. How strange, she says to herself. The neighbourhood, she tells him, could not be more unfortunate. Elinor will not let that stand. Edward is confused, and distinguishes Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne almost dislikes him, because his manners are not Willoughby's, and every feeling of hers ends by going back there. Elinor resolves to treat him by the past rather than by this present. Will anyone ask why a fortnight in the same county did not bring him sooner, or only why the lane is dirty?
Coming Up in Chapter 17
Edward pictures the orders that would travel to London if this family ever went: a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops. Then his gravity returns in full, and he sits for some time silent and dull.
