Chapter Chapter 15 · Mrs. Dashwood’s visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and

. 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.

Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had

just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against

the mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their

coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly partook of the

emotion which over-powered 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 surprise. 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 judgment than to doubt your inclination.”

“My engagements at present,” replied Willoughby, confusedly, “are of

such a nature—that—I dare not flatter myself—”

He stopped. 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 shown 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 into 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?”

“Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.”

“Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.

Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take

evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for

Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the

latter. You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave

of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shown. And is no

allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by

recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely

because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we

have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill

of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though

unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect

him of?”

“I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the

inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in

him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the

allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be

candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have

very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.

But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at

once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at

its being practiced by him.”

“Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the

deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I

have said in his defence?—I am happy—and he is acquitted.”

“Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they

_are_ engaged) from Mrs. Smith—and if that is the case, it must be

highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at

present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us.”

“Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and

Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have

been reproaching them every day for incautiousness.”

“I want no proof of their affection,” said Elinor; “but of their

engagement I do.”

“I am perfectly satisfied of both.”

“Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of

them.”

“I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has

not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last

fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future

wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?

Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been

daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate

respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could

such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby,

persuaded as he must be of your sister’s love, should leave her, and

leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his

affection;—that they should part without a mutual exchange of

confidence?”

“I confess,” replied Elinor, “that every circumstance except _one_ is

in favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of

both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other.”

“How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,

if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the

nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a

part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him

really indifferent to her?”

“No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure.”

“But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such

indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to

him.”

“You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this

matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are

fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we

find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed.”

“A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you

would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But _I_

require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify

doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and

unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister’s wishes. It must be

Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of

honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to

create alarm? can he be deceitful?”

“I hope not, I believe not,” cried Elinor. “I love Willoughby,

sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more

painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not

encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his

manners this morning;—he did not speak like himself, and did not return

your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by

such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just

parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest

affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.

Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware

that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for

some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by

our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case,

a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his

honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general

character;—but I will not raise objections against any one’s conduct on

so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or

a deviation from what I may think right and consistent.”

“You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be

suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in

this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?

Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,

it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging

everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement

in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at

a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be

observed, may now be very advisable.”

They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then

at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to

acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.

They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the

room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes

were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then

restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could

neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother’s silently

pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude

was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.

This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was

without any power, because she was without any desire of command over

herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby

overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most

anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they

spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings

connected with him.