Sense and Sensibility (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Jane Austen

  A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first rousing himself, broke it thus:—

  “Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger?”

  “We are assured of it.”

  “Your poor mother too! doting on Marianne.”

  “But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter: have you any thing to say about that?”

  “Yes, yes, that in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the Ellisons,—and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia’s eye before it caught mine;—and its size, the elegance of the paper, the handwriting altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion—her malice—at all events it must be appeased. And, in short, what do you think of my wife’s style of letter-writing?—delicate—tender—truly feminine—was it not?”

  “Your wife! The letter was in your own handwriting.”

  “Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own—her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do? We were engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed—but I am talking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine any thing was to be done 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 pocket-book, 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 blameable,” 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 have 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 Lane19 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 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 any thing. 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-by.”

  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 th
at,” 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 will 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-by. 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 good-will, by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good-by,—God bless you!”

  And with these words he almost ran out of the room.

  CHAPTER IX.

  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 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 enquire after her, no voice even for Elinor: but she, waiting neither for salutation nor enquiry, 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, reproved herself, felt that to his sufferings and his constancy, far more than to his rival‘s, the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs. Willoughby’s death.

  The shock of Colonel Brandon’s errand at Barton had been much softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any farther intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.

  Marianne continued to mend every day; and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood’s looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs, without sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment, which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. Marianne was restored to her, from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby had contributed to place her; and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy, unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.

  “At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself.”

  Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention.

  “You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon’s marrying one of you, as the object most desirable; and I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the two.”

  Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because satisfied that none, founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be given: but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination, on any interesting subject; and, therefore, instead of an enquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

  “He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child:—he could not conceal his distress; I saw that it equalled my own; and he, perhaps thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy; or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose, giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her.”

  Here, however, Elinor perceived, not the language, not the professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother’s active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.

  “His regard for her, infinitely surpassing any thing that Willoughby ever felt o
r feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant, whichever we are to call it, has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Marianne’s unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man! and without selfishness, without encouraging a hope! could he have seen her happy with another. Such a noble mind! such openness, such sincerity! No one can be deceived in him.”

  “Colonel Brandon’s character,” said Elinor, “as an excellent man, is well established.”

  “I know it is,” replied her mother, seriously, “or, after such a warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for me, as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men.”