 CHAPTER 44 Eleanor, starting back with a look of horror at the side 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 honour 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 Eleanor, 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?' Eleanor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness. For God sakes 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 force of 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 nave or a fool?' Eleanor 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 not otherwise intelligible, and with this impression she immediately rose, saying, "'Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to comb. 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 Eleanor, 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 shez since that time procured me at Nunchin at Marlborough.' The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Eleanor that whatever other unpardonable folly may 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 is past you're 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 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?' Eleanor 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 behavior 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 everything. 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 please me, and her behavior 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 endeavored 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 anything, to not let me be pained by hearing anything 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, at 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 everything that could make it a blessing. You did then, said Eleanor, 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 for 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 worst 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 to 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'd need not explain myself farther. He added, looking at her with a heightened colour and an inquiring eye, your particular intimacy. You have probably heard the whole story long ago. I have, returned Eleanor, 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 acknowledged 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 myself, 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 understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire, pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence. But upon my soul I did not know it, he warmly replied. I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction, and common sense might have told her how to find it out. Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith? She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world, everything was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman, she offered to forgive the past if I would marry Eliza. That could not be, and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The night following this affair, I was to go the next morning, was spent by me and deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle was great, but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me, it was all sufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches which I was naturally inclined to feel. An expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. A heavy scene, however, awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire. I was engaged to dine with you on that very day. Some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared, for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable, and left her hoping never to see her again. Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby? said Eleanor reproachfully. A note would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to call? It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighborhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself, and I resolved therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way to Hunneton. The sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful, and to heighten the matter, I found her alone. You were all gone, I do not know where. I had left her only the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within myself on doing right. A few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever, and I remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allingham, satisfied with myself, delighted with everybody. But in this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret. When I told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately, I shall never forget it. United too with such reliance, such confidence in me. Oh, God! What a hard-hearted rascal I was! They were both silent for a few moments. Eleanor first spoke. Did you tell her that you should soon return? I do not know what I told her, he replied impatiently. Less than was due to the past beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it. It won't do. Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence. Thank heaven it did torture me. I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I went. Left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was only indifferent. My journey to town, travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously, no creature to speak to, my own reflection so cheerful, when I looked forward everything so inviting, when I looked back at Barton the picture so soothing. Oh, it was a blessed journey. He stopped. Well, sir, said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for his departure. And this is all? Ah, no! Have you forgot what passed in town, that infamous letter? Did she show it to you? Yes, I saw every note the past. When the first of hers reached me, as it immediately did, for I was in town the whole time, what I felt is, in the common phrase, not to be expressed, in a more simple one, perhaps too simple to raise any emotion, my feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every word was, and the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid, a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town was, in the same language, a thunderbolt. Thunderbolts and daggers. What a reproof which she had given me. Her taste, her opinions. I believe they are better known to me than my own, and I am sure they are dearer. Alenor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again, yet she felt at her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last. This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. Remember that you are married. Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear. Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because time in London, business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine, hardened villain, fancing myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancy that she, too, must have become indifferent to me. Talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, I shall be heartily glad to hear she is well married. But this note made me know myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But everything was then just settled between Miss Gray and me. To retreat was impossible. All that I had to do was to avoid you both. I sent no answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her father's notice, and for some time I was even determined not to call in Berkeley Street. But at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning and left my name. Wished us out of the house! Even so! You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you, and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he not told me, as an inducement, that you and your sister were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing to trust myself near him. The next morning brought another short note from Marianne. Still affectionate, open, artless, confiding—everything that could make my conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried, but could not frame a sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you can pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman. Those three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me, and what a sweet figure I cut! What an evening of agony it was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in such a tone. Oh, God, holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face, and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that was—well, it does not signify. It is over now. Such an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as I could, but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death. That was the last—last look I ever had of her, the last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight. Yet when I thought of her today as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who saw her last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same look and hue. 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 anything 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 Ellison's, and her letter with some others was brought to me there for 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 and 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 surveily 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. Everything 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, anything 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 forever in their opinion, said I to myself. I am shut out forever from their society. They already think me an unprincipled fellow. This letter will only make them think me a blaggard 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, where 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 luck of hair, that too I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madame with the most ingratiating virulence, the dear luck. All, every momenta was torn from me. You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable, said Eleanor, 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 acclaimed 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 as no atonement to Marianne, nor can I suppose at 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 calm 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. 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 has 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, vexed 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, et cetera. 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, or 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. Alenor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early in 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 in 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 honor, 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 mantelpiece as if forgetting he was to go. Eleanor 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 behavior 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? Eleanor 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. She were very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now. But she will be gained by someone else, and if that someone 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 45 Eleanor, 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 commissuration for the sufferings produced by them which made her think of him as now separated forever 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 his 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 Mary Anne 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 Mary Anne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet asleep to the extent of her hopes. Eleanor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Willoughby's visit, Mary Anne'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 downstairs 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 Mary Anne's being no more, had no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for Eleanor, 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 Eleanor 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. She shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own. As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Mary Anne 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. Eleanor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing Mary Anne of father's sleep. But Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent when the life of a child was at stake, and Mary Anne, 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 Eleanor, 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 Mary Anne might be, doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be happy with another, and for a moment wished Willoughby a whittler. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to his sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rivals the reward of her sister was due, and wished anything 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 Mary Anne that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that very day without waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival that the carries were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection. Mary Anne 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. Eleanor 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 Eleanor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. Mary Anne 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 Eleanor. It was thus imparted to her as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred. At last we are alone. My Eleanor, you do not yet know all my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Mary Anne. 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 Eleanor, 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 Mary Anne will be the most happy with him of the two. Eleanor 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 inquiry 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 equaled 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 Mary Anne. He has loved her by Eleanor ever since the first moment of seeing her. Here, however, Eleanor perceived not the language, not the professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy, which fashioned everything delightful to her as it chose. As regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm as more sincere or constant, whichever we are to call it, has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Mary Anne'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 Eleanor, 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 to me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men. His character, however, answered Eleanor, does not rest on one act of kindness to which his affection for Mary Anne, or humanity out of the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he has been long and intimately known. They equally love and respect him, and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable, and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Mary Anne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. What answer did you give him? Did you allow him to hope? Oh, my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. Mary Anne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or encouragement. His was, in involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend. Not an application to a parent. Yet after a time I did say, for at first I was quite overcome, but if she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage. And since our arrival, since our delightful security, I have repeated to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do everything. Mary Anne's heart is not to be wasted forever on such a man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it. To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine? No. He thinks Mary Anne's affection too deeply rooted for any change in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again free is too diffident of himself to believe that with such a difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There, however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed, and his disposition I am well convinced is exactly the very one to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are all in his favor. My partiality does not blind me. He certainly is not so handsome as Willoughby, but at the same time there is something much more pleasing in his countenance. There is always a something, if you remember, in Willoughby's eyes at times which I did not like. Alenor could not remember it, but her mother, without waiting for her, assent, continued. And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attaching to Mary Anne. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly, unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition than the liveliness, often artificial and often ill-timed, of the other. I am very sure myself that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Mary Anne would yet never have been so happy with him as she will be with Colonel Brandon. She paused. Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent was not heard and therefore gave no offence. At Delaford she will be within an easy distance of me, added Mrs. Dashwood, even if I remain at Barton, and at all probability, for I hear it is the large village, indeed there certainly must be some small house or cottage close by that would suit us quite as well as our present situation. Poor Eleanor! Here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford, but her spirit was stubborn. His fortune too, for at my time of life you know everybody cares about that, and though I neither know nor desire to know what it really is, I am sure it must be a good one. Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and Eleanor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it to feel a pang for Willoughby. End of chapter. Chapter 46 of Sense and Sensibility This recording is my Mark Smith of Simpsonville South Carolina. Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen Chapter 46 Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to make her recovery slow, and with youth, natural strength, and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room, when there, at her own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her. His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such as, in Eleanor's conjecture, must arise from something more than his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others. And she soon discovered, in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation. Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behavior but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude already dawned. At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On her measures depended those of her two friends, Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the Dashwood's stay, and Colonel Brandon was soon brought by their united request to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journey back for the better accommodation of her sick child, and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage in the course of a few weeks. The day of separation and departure arrived, and Marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes, as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, embedding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Eleanor then followed, and the others were left by themselves to talk of the travellers and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to Hershez to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young companions, and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary way to Delofford. The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey on both without essential fatigue. Everything that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful friend, and each found their reward in her bodily ease and her calmness of spirits. To Eleanor the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy which no other could equally share, and apparent composure of mind which, in being the result as she trusted, of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness. As they approached Barton indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here Eleanor could neither wander nor blame, and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise anything less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent manner she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion, for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her Piano Forte. She went to it, but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favorite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his handwriting. That would not do. She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again, declaring, however, with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much. The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish. When the weather is settled, and I have recovered by strength, said she, we will take long walks together every day, we will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on. We will walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abiland, and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for anything beyond mere amusement, but there are many works well worth reading at the park, and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want. More honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this, though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment in virtuous self-control. Her smile, however, changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettled the mind of Marianne, and ruined at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure before she appointed it, but the resolution was made only to be broken. Marianne had been two or three days at home before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared, such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence, and Marianne, leaning on Eleanor's arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue in the lane before the house. The sister set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required, and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said, There, exactly there, pointing with one hand, on that projecting mound, there I fell, and there I first saw Willoughby. Her voice sunk with a word, but presently reviving she added, I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot. Shall we ever talk on that subject, Eleanor? hesitatingly it was said, Or will it be wrong? I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do. Eleanor tenderly invited her to be open. As for regret, said Marianne, I have done with that as far as he is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings had been for him, but what they are now. At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not always acting apart, not always deceiving me, but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so very wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl. She stopped. Eleanor joyfully treasured her words as she answered. If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy. Yes, my peace of mind is doubly involved in it, for not only is it horrible to suspect a person who has been what he has been to me of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a situation like mine but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to? How then, asked her sister, would you account for his behavior? I would suppose him, oh, how gladly would I suppose him only fickle, very, very fickle. Eleanor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne was in stronger health, and they crept on for a few minutes in silence. I am not wishing him too much good, said Marianne at last with a sigh, when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in them. Do you compare your conduct with his? No, I compare it with what it ought to have been. I compare it with yours. Our situations have borne little resemblance. They may have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Eleanor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past. I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My illness, I well know, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was removed, but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wander at my recovery. Wander that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died, in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister, you who have seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days, who had known all the murmurings of my heart? How should I have lived in your remembrance? My mother, too. How could you have consoled her? I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. However I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Everybody seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repained with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmer's, the Steels, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust, with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them, little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I and only I knew your heart and its sorrows, yet to what did it influence me? Not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself. Your example was before me, but to what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance or lessen your restraints by taking any part in those offices of general complacence or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No. Not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship, scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only that heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you for who I professed an unbounded affection to be miserable for my sake. Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit, and Elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied, You are very good. The future must be my proof. I have laid down my plan, and if I am capable of it hearing to it, my feelings shall be governed, and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me. You will share my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement to move, and if I do mix another society, it will be only to show that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practice the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby, to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him would be idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions, but it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment. She paused, and added in a low voice, If I could but know his heart, everything would become easy. Eleanor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this, and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact. She managed the recital as she hoped with address, prepared her anxious listener with caution, related simply and honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded his apology, did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard. Marianne said not a word, she trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness. Her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sisters, and tears covered her cheeks. Eleanor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home, until they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be, though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together, and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look where minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude, and these two words just articulate through her tears, no mama withdrew from her sister and walked slowly upstairs. Eleanor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now sought, and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parlor to fulfil her parting injunction. CHAPTER 47 Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt. She was sorry for him. She wished him happy. But the feelings of the past could not be recalled. Nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken, a character unblemished to Marianne. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon. Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from himself, had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater. But it was neither in Eleanor's power nor in her wish to rouse such feelings in another by her retailed explanation as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of Willoughby's desserts. She wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fanciest stray. In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began voluntarily to speak of him again, but that it was not without an effort the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously sitting, her rising color as she spoke and her unsteady voice plainly showed. I wished to assure you both, said she, that I see everything as you can desire me to do. Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not Eleanor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion by an eager sign engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued. It is a great relief to me what Eleanor told me this morning. I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear. For some moments her voice was lost, but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before, I am now perfectly satisfied. I wish for no change. I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this. I should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings. I know it, I know it, cried her mother. Happy with a man of liberty and practices, with one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends and the best of men. No, my Marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man. Her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt. Marianne sighed, and repeated, I wish for no change. You consider the matter, said Eleanor, exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it, and I dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection on his side, much less certain. Had you married, you must have always been poor. His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands, and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the less grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. Your sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible, and perhaps as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it. But beyond that, and how little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage. Beyond that, had you endeavored, however reasonably, to abridge his enjoyments, is it not to be feared that instead of prevailing on feeling so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties? Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word, Selfish, in a tone that implied, Do you really think him selfish? The whole of his behaviour, replied Eleanor, from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections, which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was in every particular his ruling principle. It is very true, my happiness never was his object. At present, continued Eleanor, he regrets what he has done, and why does he regret it? Because he finds it has not answered towards himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed, he suffers from no evil of that kind, and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy? The inconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have always been necessitous, always poor, and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife. I have not a doubt of it, said Marianne, and I have nothing to regret, nothing but my own folly. Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child, said Mrs. Dashwood, she must be answerable. Marianne would not let her proceed, and Eleanor satisfied that each felt their own error wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits. She therefore was pursuing the first subject, immediately continued. One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story, that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offense against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents. Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark, and her mother was led by it, to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her. Eleanor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following days that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done, but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust the effect of time upon her health. Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage, and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite as much vigor, as when they first came to Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future. Margaret grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness, and in the first of Johns there had been the sentence. We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford. Which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures. Their men's servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business, and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the enquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication. I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Farrars is married. Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Eleanor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's enquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Eleanor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards a light distressed by Marianne's situation knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention. The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room. By that time Marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Eleanor, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an enquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself, and Eleanor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it. Who told you that Mr. Farrars was married, Thomas? I see Mr. Farrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady, too, Miss Steele, as was. They were stopping in a shez at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the shez, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele. So I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Farrars's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you. But they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but howsoever when they come back they'd make sure to come and see you. But did she tell you she was married, Thomas? Yes, ma'am, she smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. She was, as always, a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil-behaved, so I made free to wish her joy. Was Mr. Farrars in the carriage with her? Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up. He never was a gentleman much for talking. Thomas' heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward, and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation. Was there no one else in the carriage? No, ma'am, only they two. Do you know where they came from? They come straight from town as Miss Lucy, Mrs. Farrars, told me. And are they going farther westward? Yes, ma'am, but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here. Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter, but Eleanor knew better than to expect them. She recognized the whole of Lucy in the message, and was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth. Mrs. Intelligence seemed over. Eleanor looked as if she wished to hear more. Did you see them off before you came away? No, ma'am. The horses were just coming out, but I could not abide any longer. I was afraid of being late. Did Mrs. Farrars look well? Yes, ma'am. She said how she was very well, and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady, and she seemed vastly contented. Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne had already sent to say that she would eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood's and Eleanor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before. When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and Eleanor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found that she had aired in relying on Eleanor's representation of herself, and justly concluded that everything had been expressly softened at the time to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered from Marianne. She found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment which once she had so well understood much sleighter in reality than she had been want to believe or than it now proved to be. She feared that under his persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind to her Eleanor, that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in Eleanor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation and a greater fortitude. Eleanor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however surgeon the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself. She now found that in spite of herself she had always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy, that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all. But he was now married, and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence. That he should be married soon, before, as she imagined, he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living, surprised her a little at first, but she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy, in her self-provenant care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook everything but the risk of delay. They were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncles. What did Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton on seeing her mother's servant on hearing Lucy's message? They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford. Delaford, that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest, which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house, saw in Lucy the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices, pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see, happy or unhappy. Nothing pleased her, she turned away her head from every sketch of him. Eleanor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars, but day after day passed off and brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent. When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am? was an inquiry which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on. I wrote to him my love last week, and rather expect to see than to hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk in to-day or to-morrow, or any day. This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel Brandon must have some information to give. Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopped at their gate. It was a gentleman. It was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more, and she trembled in expectation of it. But it was not Colonel Brandon, neither his air nor his height. Were it possible, she must say it must be Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted. She could not be mistaken. It was Edward. She moved away and sat down. He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I will be calm. I will be mistress of myself. In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour, saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have given the world to be able to speak, and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him. But she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion. Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path. In a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them. His countenance as he entered the room was not too happy, even for Eleanor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming as she trusted to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of force complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy. He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Eleanor's lips had moved with her mother's, and when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too late, and when the countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather. Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her distress, and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence. When Eleanor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place. It was put on end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrar's very well. In a hurried manner he replied in the affirmative. Another pause. Her resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said, �Is Mrs. Ferrar's at longstable?� �At longstable,� he replied, with an air of surprise, �No, my mother is in town.� �I meant,� said Eleanor, taking up some work from the table, �to inquire for Mrs. Edward Ferrar's.� She dared not look up, but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyes on him. He colored, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said, �Perhaps you mean my brother?� you mean Mrs. �Mrs. Robert Ferrar's.� �Mrs. Robert Ferrar's� was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement, and though Eleanor could not speak, even her eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his seat, and walked to the window. Apparently from not knowing what to do, took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces, as he spoke, said in a hurried voice, �Perhaps you do not know?� you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to the youngest, to Miss Lucy Steele. His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Eleanor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was. �Yes� said he. �They were married last week, and are now at dollish.� Eleanor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked anywhere rather than at her, saw her hurry away and perhaps saw, or even heard, her emotion, for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate. And at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village, leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden, a