CHAPTER XLVII.
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 Elinor’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 deserts;—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 fancy
astray.
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 colour, as she spoke,—and her unsteady
voice, plainly showed.
“I wish to assure you both,” said she, “that I see every thing—as you can
desire me to do.”
Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing
tenderness, had not Elinor, 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 Elinor 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 libertine
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 Elinor, “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 been always 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 endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge his
enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings 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 Elinor, “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 Elinor, “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 been always 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 Elinor, satisfied that each felt
their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken
her sister’s spirits; she, therefore, 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 offence
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.
Elinor, 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 to 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 so much vigour as when they first came to Barton, at least
planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.
Elinor 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 John’s,
there had been this 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 man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and
when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as
to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication,—
“I suppose you know, ma’am, that Mr. Ferrars is married.”
Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her turning
pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as
she answered the servant’s inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction,
was shocked to perceive by Elinor’s countenance how much she really
suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike 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
Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of
her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the
source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble
on herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the information without the
exertion of seeking it.
“Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?”
“I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma’am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady
too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise 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 chaise, 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. Ferrars’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 howsever, 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 always a very affable and free-spoken
young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy.”
“Was Mr. Ferrars 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.”
Elinor’s 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. Ferrars 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 Elinor knew better than
to expect them. She recognised 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.
Thomas’s intelligence seemed over. Elinor 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 bide any
longer; I was afraid of being late.”
“Did Mrs. Ferrars 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 should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood’s
and Elinor’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
Elinor 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 erred in
relying on Elinor’s representation of herself; and justly concluded that every
thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase
of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for 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 slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was
now proved to be. She feared that under this persuasion she had been
unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;—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 Elinor
she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less
self-provocation, and greater fortitude.
