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 mantelpiece with his back towards them. He turned round
on their coming in, and his countenance showed 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."
[Illustration: _Apparently in violent affliction._]
"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 blamable, 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.