Sense and Sensibility
to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my
character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language
my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My business
was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a
bluster was of little importance. ‘I am ruined for ever in their
opinion,’ said I to myself: ‘I am shut out for ever from their society,
they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only
make them think me a blackguard one.’ Such were my reasonings, as, in a
sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife’s words, and parted
with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes,—unluckily they were
all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their existence, and
hoarded them for ever,—I was forced to put them up, and could not even
kiss them. And the lock of hair—that too I had always carried about me
in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most
ingratiating virulence,—the dear lock,—all, every memento was torn from
me.”
“You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,” said Elinor, while
her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;
“you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my
sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your
wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She
must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat
her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to
Marianne—nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience.”
“Do not talk to me of my wife,” said he with a heavy sigh; “she does
not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we
married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be
happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity
me, Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,—be it
only one degree,—am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My
intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my
guilt?”
“Yes, you have certainly removed something—a little. You have proved
yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have
proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know—the
misery that you have inflicted—I hardly know what could have made it
worse.”
“Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been
telling you?—Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as
in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able
to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present
feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more
gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my
penitence—tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if
you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.”
“I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be
called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the
particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her
illness.”
“Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and
when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months, he spoke to
me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without
surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid
soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister,
could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to,
though probably he did not think it _would_, vex me horridly. As
bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne
Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland—a letter that morning
received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent—the
Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much shocked to be
able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir
John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his
ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the
hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What
I felt on hearing that your sister was dying, and dying too, believing
me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest
moments—for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been
imputed? _One_ person I was sure would represent me as capable of
anything—What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and at
eight o’clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all.”
Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the
irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent
habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the
character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person
and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a
feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and
vain—Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.
Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another,
had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least
its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty
propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.
The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against
every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no
longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the
sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,
was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more
incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the
end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie
at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and
said—
“There is no use in staying here; I must be off.”
“Are you going back to town?”
“No—to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day
or two. Good bye.”
He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers;—he pressed
it with affection.
“And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?” said he,
letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting
he was to go.
Elinor assured him that she did;—that she forgave, pitied, wished him
well—was even interested in his happiness—and added some gentle counsel
as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very
encouraging.
“As to that,” said he, “I must rub through the world as well as I can.
Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to
think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it
may be the means—it may put me on my guard—at least, it may be
something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were
I even by any blessed chance at liberty again—”
Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
“Well,”—he replied—“once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in
dread of one event.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your sister’s marriage.”
“You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is
now.”
“But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should
be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear—but I will not
stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that
where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye,—God bless
you!”
And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.
CHAPTER XLV.
Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the
sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a
crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness
was the general result, to think even of her sister.
Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most
worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a
degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made
her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a
tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
within herself—to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his
influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not
in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that
open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;
and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even
innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she
could feel his influence less.
When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her
just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of
her hopes. Elinor’s heart was full. The past, the present, the future,
Willoughby’s visit, Marianne’s safety, and her mother’s expected
arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept
off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying
herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear
could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby’s leaving
the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another
carriage.—Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment’s
horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the
outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it.
Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced
almost the conviction of Marianne’s being no more, had no voice to
inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but _she_, waiting neither
for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her
mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much
overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. She was
supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend;
and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak,
embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press
Colonel Brandon’s hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude,
and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the
moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own.
As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her
first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,
rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
Elinor’s delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only
checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep:
but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life
of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother
was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation,
submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse
around her. Mrs. Dashwood _would_ sit up with her all night; and
Elinor, in compliance with her mother’s entreaty, went to bed. But the
rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most
wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of
spirits. Willoughby, “poor Willoughby,” as she now allowed herself to
call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard
his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself
for having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it
to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of
it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether after
such an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a
moment wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon,