Sense and Sensibility
may be—there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at
first.”
“What did you hear?”
“That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think—in short, that a man,
whom I _knew_ to be engaged—but how shall I tell you? If you know it
already, as surely you must, I may be spared.”
“You mean,” answered Elinor, with forced calmness, “Mr. Willoughby’s
marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we _do_ know it all. This seems to have
been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded
it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it?”
“In a stationer’s shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies
were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other
an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting
concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of
Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my
attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing
was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey—it was
no longer to be a secret—it would take place even within a few weeks,
with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing,
especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still
more:—as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna,
his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!—but it would be impossible
to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt, on inquiry,
for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and
that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey’s
guardian.”
“It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand
pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation.”
“It may be so; but Willoughby is capable—at least I think”—he stopped a
moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, “And
your sister—how did she—”
“Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they
may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel
affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;
and even now, perhaps—but _I_ am almost convinced that he never was
really attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some
points, there seems a hardness of heart about him.”
“Ah!” said Colonel Brandon, “there is, indeed! But your sister does
not—I think you said so—she does not consider quite as you do?”
“You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still
justify him if she could.”
He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the
tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was
necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure
while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss
Dashwood’s communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel
Brandon’s side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of
hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening
more serious and thoughtful than usual.
CHAPTER XXXI.
From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the
next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had
closed her eyes.
Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and
before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and
again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on
Elinor’s side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on
Marianne’s, as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as
unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every
consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. At one moment she
was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at
another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third
could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform,
when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the
presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to
endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings’s
entering into her sorrows with any compassion.
“No, no, no, it cannot be,” she cried; “she cannot feel. Her kindness
is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants
is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it.”
Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her
sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable
refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her
on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished
manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be
that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an
excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected
from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she
judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on
herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together
in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.
Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own
weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though
Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.
With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,
from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,
saying,
“Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good.”
Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her
a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,
explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and
instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room
to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances
of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The
hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her;
and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an
ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had
never suffered.
The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her
moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could
reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with
passionate violence—a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its
object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still
referring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was
calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled every
page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as
warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor’s
application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards them
both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for
Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each
other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.
All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was
dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken
confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor,
unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be
in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of
patience till their mother’s wishes could be known; and at length she
obtained her sister’s consent to wait for that knowledge.
Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy
till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;
and positively refusing Elinor’s offered attendance, went out alone for
the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the
pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne’s
letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then
sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat
her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the
drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings’s going away, remained fixed at the table
where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over
her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly
over its effect on her mother.
In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when
Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was
startled by a rap at the door.
“Who can this be?” cried Elinor. “So early too! I thought we _had_ been
safe.”
Marianne moved to the window.
“It is Colonel Brandon!” said she, with vexation. “We are never safe
from _him_.”
“He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home.”
“I will not trust to _that_,” retreating to her own room. “A man who
has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion
on that of others.”
The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on
injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon _did_ come in; and Elinor, who
was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who
saw _that_ solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his
anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister
for esteeming him so lightly.
“I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,” said he, after the first
salutation, “and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more
easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you
alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object—my wish—my sole
wish in desiring it—I hope, I believe it is—is to be a means of giving
comfort;—no, I must not say comfort—not present comfort—but conviction,
lasting conviction to your sister’s mind. My regard for her, for
yourself, for your mother—will you allow me to prove it, by relating
some circumstances which nothing but a _very_ sincere regard—nothing
but an earnest desire of being useful—I think I am justified—though
where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am
right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?” He stopped.
“I understand you,” said Elinor. “You have something to tell me of Mr.
Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will
be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. _My_
gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to
that end, and _hers_ must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me
hear it.”
“You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,—but
this will give you no idea—I must go farther back. You will find me a
very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A
short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it _shall_
be a short one. On such a subject,” sighing heavily, “can I have little
temptation to be diffuse.”
He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went
on.
“You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation—(it is not to be
supposed that it could make any impression on you)—a conversation
between us one evening at Barton Park—it was the evening of a dance—in
which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some
measure, your sister Marianne.”
“Indeed,” answered Elinor, “I have _not_ forgotten it.” He looked
pleased by this remembrance, and added,
“If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender
recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well
in mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of
fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan
from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our ages
were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows