Sense and Sensibility
satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not
deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view.
By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn
by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother’s
alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.
Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at
that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the
carriage stopt at the door—of her doubt—her dread—perhaps her
despair!—and of what _she_ had to tell!—with such knowledge it was
impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy;
and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings’s maid
with her sister, she hurried down stairs.
The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,
assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the
drawing-room,—she entered it,—and saw only Willoughby.
CHAPTER XLIV.
Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed
the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room,
and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by
his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than
supplication,
“Miss Dashwood, for half an hour—for ten minutes—I entreat you to
stay.”
“No, sir,” she replied with firmness, “I shall _not_ stay. Your
business cannot be with _me_. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell
you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house.”
“Had they told me,” he cried with vehemence, “that Mr. Palmer and all
his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the
door. My business is with you, and only you.”
“With me!”—in the utmost amazement—“well, sir,—be quick—and if you
can—less violent.”
“Sit down, and I will be both.”
She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel
Brandon’s arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she had
promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was
engaged. After a moment’s recollection, therefore, concluding that
prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best
promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He
took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by
either.
“Pray be quick, sir,”—said Elinor, impatiently;—“I have no time to
spare.”
He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to
hear her.
“Your sister,” said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards—“is out of
danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised!—But is it true? is
it really true?”
Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater
eagerness.
“For God’s sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?”
“We hope she is.”
He rose up, and walked across the room.
“Had I known as much half an hour ago;—but since I _am_ here,” speaking
with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat,—“what does it
signify? For once, Miss Dashwood—it will be the last time, perhaps—let
us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me
honestly” a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, “do you think me most
a knave or a fool?”
Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to
think that he must be in liquor;—the strangeness of such a visit, and
of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this
impression she immediately rose, saying,
“Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. I am not
at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be
with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow.”
“I understand you,” he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice
perfectly calm; “yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold
beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me.”
“At Marlborough!”—cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand
what he would be at.
“Yes,—I left London this morning at eight o’clock, and the only ten
minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a
nuncheon at Marlborough.”
The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he
spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might
bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she
said, after a moment’s recollection,
“Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after
what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself
upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you
mean by it?”
“I mean,” said he, with serious energy, “if I can, to make you hate me
one degree less than you do _now_. I mean to offer some kind of
explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart
to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a
blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like
forgiveness from Ma— from your sister.”
“Is this the real reason of your coming?”
“Upon my soul it is,”—was his answer, with a warmth which brought all
the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made
her think him sincere.
“If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she
has _long_ forgiven you.”
“Has she?” he cried, in the same eager tone. “Then she has forgiven me
before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and
on more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?”
Elinor bowed her assent.
“I do not know,” said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and
thoughtfulness on his own, “how _you_ may have accounted for my
behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have
imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,—it is
worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first
became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view
in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged
to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.
Your sister’s lovely person and interesting manners could not but
please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a
kind—it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_
was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must
confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness,
thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had
always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every
means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design
of returning her affection.”
Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most
angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,
“It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me
to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by
any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the
subject.”
“I insist on you hearing the whole of it,” he replied, “My fortune was
never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of
associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since
my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and
though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet
that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for
some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a
woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a
thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty,
which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood,
can ever reprobate too much,—I was acting in this manner, trying to
engage her regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may
be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not
know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not _then_
know what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be
doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings
to vanity, to avarice? or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers?
But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection
and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by
raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a
blessing.”
“You did then,” said Elinor, a little softened, “believe yourself at
one time attached to her?”
“To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!
Is there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself, by
insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my
life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly
honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even _then_, however, when fully
determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most
improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an
unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were
so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here—nor will I stop for
_you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of
scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The
event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great
circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible
and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I
had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the
attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an
affection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the
interim—in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before
I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private—a
circumstance occurred—an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my
resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took place,”—here
he hesitated and looked down. “Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been
informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to
deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection—but I need not
explain myself farther,” he added, looking at her with an heightened
colour and an enquiring eye,—“your particular intimacy—you have
probably heard the whole story long ago.”
“I have,” returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart
anew against any compassion for him, “I have heard it all. And how you
will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I
confess is beyond my comprehension.”
“Remember,” cried Willoughby, “from whom you received the account.
Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her
character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify
myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have
nothing to urge—that because she was injured she was irreproachable,
and because _I_ was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. If the violence
of her passions, the weakness of her understanding—I do not mean,
however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better
treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness
which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I
wish—I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than
herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?)
was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind—Oh! how infinitely
superior!”
“Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl—I must say
it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well
be—your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do
not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of