Chapter 47

by Jane Austen

　　Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindicationof her former favourite. She rejoiced in his beingcleared from some part of his imputed guilt;--she wassorry for him;--she wished him happy. But the feelingsof the past could not be recalled.--Nothing could restorehim with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished,to Marianne. Nothing could do away the knowledgeof 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'sstory from himself--had she witnessed his distress,and been under the influence of his countenance and hismanner, it is probable that her compassion would havebeen greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power,nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by herretailed explanation, as had at first been called forthin 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 thefancy 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 timepreviously sitting--her rising colour, as she spoke,--and her unsteady voice, plainly shewed."I wish to assure you both," said she, "that I seeevery thing--as you can desire me to do."Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantlywith soothing tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wishedto 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 toldme this morning--I have now heard exactly what Iwished to hear."--For some moments her voice was lost;but recovering herself, she added, and with greatercalmness than before--"I am now perfectly satisfied,I wish for no change. I never could have been happywith him, after knowing, as sooner or later I musthave 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 onewho so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends,and the best of menmy Marianne has not a heartto be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, hersensitive counscience, would have felt all that theconscience of her husband ought to have felt."Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change.""You consider the matter," said Elinor, "exactly asa good mind and a sound understanding must consider it;and I dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not onlyin this, but in many other circumstances, reason enoughto be convinced that your marriage must have involved youin many certain troubles and disappointments, in whichyou 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 isacknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declaresthat 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 whichwould not be the less grievous to you, from having beenentirely unknown and unthought of before. Your senseof honour and honesty would have led you, I know,when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economythat would appear to you possible: and, perhaps, as longas 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 managementdo 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 insteadof 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 himin such difficulties?"Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word"Selfish?" in a tone that implied--"do you really thinkhim selfish?""The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor,"from the beginning to the end of the affair, has beengrounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which firstmade him sport with your affections; which afterwards,when his own were engaged, made him delay the confessionof 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 hehas done. And why does he regret it?--Because he findsit has not answered towards himself. It has not madehim happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed--hesuffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks onlythat he has married a woman of a less amiable temperthan yourself. But does it follow that had he married you,he would have been happy?--The inconveniences would havebeen different. He would then have suffered under thepecuniary distresses which, because they are removed,he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wifeof whose temper he could make no complaint, but he wouldhave been always necessitous--always poor; and probablywould soon have learned to rank the innumerable comfortsof 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 Ihave 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 avoidany survey of the past that might weaken her sister'sspirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject,immediately continued,"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn fromthe whole of the story--that all Willoughby's difficultieshave arisen from the first offence against virtue, in hisbehaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the originof 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 ColonelBrandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendshipand design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter didnot look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the twoor three following days, that Marianne did not continueto gain strength as she had done; but while her resolutionwas unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerfuland easy, her sister could safely trust to the effectof time upon her health.Margaret returned, and the family were again allrestored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage;and if not pursuing their usual studies with quiteso 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 hispresent abode. Some letters had passed between herand 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 noenquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude himto be still at Oxford;" which was all the intelligenceof Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his namewas not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance ofhis measures.Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeteron business; and when, as he waited at table, he hadsatisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the eventof 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 eyesupon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in herchair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as sheanswered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively takenthe same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor'scountenance how much she really suffered, and a momentafterwards, alike distressed by Marianne's situation,knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention.The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne wastaken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids,who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance, supported her intothe other room. By that time, Marianne was rather better,and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaretand the maid, returned to Elinor, who, though stillmuch disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reasonand voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas,as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwoodimmediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinorhad the benefit of the information without the exertionof seeking it."Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?""I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morningin Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They wasstopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn,as I went there with a message from Sally at the Parkto her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happenedto look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directlyit 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 theywas they had not time to come on and see you, but they wasin a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going furtherdown 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 shehad 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 muchfor talking."Elinor's heart could easily account for his notputting himself forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probablyfound 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 soonbe 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 wasvery confident that Edward would never come near them.She observed in a low voice, to her mother, that theywere probably going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor lookedas 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 Icould 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 younglady--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 sentto say, that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood'sand Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaretmight think herself very well off, that with so muchuneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced,so much reason as they had often had to be carelessof their meals, she had never been obliged to go withouther 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 thoughtfulnessand silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark,and ventured not to offer consolation. She now foundthat she had erred in relying on Elinor's representationof herself; and justly concluded that every thinghad been expressly softened at the time, to spare herfrom an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she thenhad suffered for Marianne. She found that she had beenmisled by the careful, the considerate attention ofher daughter, to think the attachment, which once shehad so well understood, much slighter in reality, thanshe had been wont to believe, or than it was now provedto be. She feared that under this persuasion she hadbeen unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;--that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged,more immediately before her, had too much engrossedher tenderness, and led her away to forget that in Elinorshe might have a daughter suffering almost as much,certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.