Sense and Sensibility

VII.

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.