The 19th Century Novel

Why is it in every Romantic Period novel or Victorian Era piece, every time a raindrop falls on some fancy tart, she falls into bed with chills and is stricken with the immediate risk of pneumonia? Was this the only plot twist authors ago could come up with? And the lady authors are the worst, like Marianne in Sense and Sensibility. She can't weather a sprinkle of a storm, but Colonel Brandon can ride horseback through the counties at night and just jump of his mount dripping only of testosterone, and a mild sweat. Sophie learns of a few false Valentines and soon she's laid up in bed near convulsions (Gaskell). And why is it that we are so terribly attracted to this...?

I used to think that a good tragedy would make the best tale; a couple in deep love split by his having to go off to war, letters through the years, the war is over he is ready to come back, she yearns for him, and a freak fire in the ammunition shed sends a random round through his heart and he is buried somewhere in France. Now there is a good novel! Till a friend recommended the movie Atonement- you see essentially that, and Zac is sitting there mouth agape murmuring, "No, no. They were in love. They were supposed to get married. IT just isn't...."