Sense and Sensibility
‘I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!’
‘If you would but let us know what your business is,’ said Mrs Jennings, ‘we might see whether it could be put off or not.’
‘You would not be six hours later,’ said Willoughby, ‘if you were to defer your journey till our return.’
‘I cannot afford to lose one hour.’
Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, ‘There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing.’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ replied Marianne.
‘There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old,’ said Sir John, ‘when once you are determined on any thing. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the Cottage, and Mr Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell.’
Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable.
‘Well, then, when will you come back again?’
‘I hope we shall see you at Barton,’ added her ladyship, ‘as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return.’
‘You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all.’
‘Oh! he must and shall come back,’ cried Sir John. ‘If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him.’
‘Aye, so do, Sir John,’ cried Mrs Jennings, ‘and then perhaps you may find out what his business is.’
‘I do not want to pry into other men’s concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of.’
Colonel Brandon’s horses were announced.
‘You do not go to town on horseback, do you?’ added Sir John.
‘No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post.’
‘Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind.’
‘I assure you it is not in my power.’
He then took leave of the whole party.
‘Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?’
‘I am afraid, none at all.’
‘Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do.’
To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.
‘Come, Colonel,’ said Mrs Jennings, ‘before you go, do let us know what you are going about.’
He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.
The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hither to restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.
‘I can guess what his business is, however,’ said Mrs Jennings exultingly.
‘Can you, ma’am?’ said almost every body.
‘Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure.’
‘And who is Miss Williams?’ asked Marianne.
‘What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel’s, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies.’ Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, ‘She is his natural daughter.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune.’
When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby’s was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs.
It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs Jennings sat on Elinor’s right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, ‘I have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning.’
Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, ‘Where, pray?’
‘Did not you know,’ said Willoughby, ‘that we had been out in my curricle?’
‘Yes, yes, Mr Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to find out where you had been to. – I hope you like your house, Miss Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six years ago.’
Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs Jennings laughed heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they had been, she had actually made her own woman inquire of Mr Willoughby’s groom; and that she had by that method been informed that they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking about the garden and going all over the house.
Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house while Mrs Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance.
As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor inquired of her about it; and great was her surprize when she found that every circumstance related by Mrs Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry with her for doubting it.
‘Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?’
‘Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs Smith was there, and with no other companion than Mr Willoughby.’
‘Mr Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew that house; and as we went in an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life.’
‘I am afraid,’ replied Elinor, ‘that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety.’
‘On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure.’
‘But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?’
‘If the impertinent remarks of Mrs Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs Smith’s grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr Willoughby’s, and –’
‘If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be justified in what you have done.’
She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and after a ten minutes’ interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again, and said with great good humour, ‘Perhaps, Elinor, it was rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr Willoughby wanted particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure you. – There is one remarkably pretty sitting-room up stairs; of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture, – but if it were newly fitted up – a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England.’
Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others, she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.
CHAPTER 14
The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon’s visit at the Park, with his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind and raised the wonder of Mrs Jennings for two or three days; she was a great wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered with little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all.
‘Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,’ said she. ‘I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left every thing sadly involved. I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give any thing to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances now, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain.’
So wondered, so talked Mrs Jennings, her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.
She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne.
Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby’s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover’s heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The Cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the Park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet.
One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs Dashwood’s happening to mention her design of improving the Cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him.
‘What!’ he exclaimed – ‘Improve this dear cottage! No. That I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded.’
‘Do not be alarmed,’ said Miss Dashwood, ‘nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it.’
‘I am heartily glad of it,’ he cried. ‘May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better.’
‘Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?’
‘I am,’ said he. ‘To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage.’
‘With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,’ said Elinor.
‘Yes,’ cried he in the same eager tone, ‘with all and every thing belonging to it; – in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton.’
‘I flatter myself,’ replied Elinor, ‘that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this.’
‘There certainly are circumstances,’ said Willoughby, ‘which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim on my affection, which no other can possibly share.’
Mrs Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him.
‘How often did I wish,’ added he, ‘when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton Cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton Cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?’ speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, ‘And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford.’
Mrs Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted.
‘You are a good woman,’ he warmly replied. ‘Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me.’
The promise was readily given, and Willoughby’s behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.
‘Shall we see you to-morrow to dinner?’ said Mrs Dashwood, when he was leaving them. ‘I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the Park, to call on Lady Middleton.’
He engaged to be with them by four o’clock.
CHAPTER 15
Mrs Dashwood’s visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home.
On their return from the Park they found Willoughby’s curricle and servant in waiting at the Cottage, and Mrs Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs. Surprized and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the emotion which overpowered Marianne.
‘Is anything the matter with her?’ cried Mrs Dashwood as she entered – ‘is she ill?’
‘I hope not,’ he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced smile presently added, ‘It is I who may rather expect to be ill – for I am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!’
‘Disappointment?’
‘Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs Smith has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you.’
‘To London! – and are you going this morning?’
‘Almost this moment.’
‘This is very unfortunate. But Mrs Smith must be obliged; – and her business will not detain you from us long, I hope.’
He coloured as he replied, ‘You are very kind, but I have no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs Smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth.’
‘And is Mrs Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can you wait for an invitation here?’
His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only replied, ‘You are too good.’
Mrs Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprize. Elinor felt equal amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs Dashwood first spoke.
‘I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton Cottage you will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here immediately, because you only can judge how far that might be pleasing to Mrs Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question your judgement than to doubt your inclination.’
‘My engagements at present,’ replied Willoughby confusedly, ‘are of such a nature – that – I dare not flatter myself –’
He stopt. Mrs Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint smile, ‘It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy.’
He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.
Mrs Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned.
Elinor’s uneasiness was at least equal to her mother’s. She thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby’s behaviour in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother’s invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister; – the distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne’s love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.
But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister’s affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty.
In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncheerful.
‘Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,’ said she, as she sat down to work, ‘and with how heavy a heart does he travel?’
‘It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes’ notice – Gone too without intending to return! – Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. You must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept your invitation here?’
‘It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see that. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over, I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as to you.’
‘Can you, indeed!’
‘Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way; – but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can – it will not satisfy you, I know; but you shall not talk me out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that account is eager to get him away; – and that the business which she sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware that she does disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give in to her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or may not have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say?’