FROM a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery1 in which she had closed her eyes.
Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and before breakfast was ready they had gone through the subject again and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others lost every consolation2 in the impossibility of acquitting4 him. At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world at another, she would seclude5 herself from it for ever, and at a third, could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined6 silence when obliged to endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion7. "No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel. Her kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants is gossip; and she only likes me now because I supply it." Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice8 to which her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable9 refinement10 of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her on the delicacies11 of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition12, was neither reasonable nor candid13. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives14 by the immediate15 effect of their actions on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. J
ennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost good-will. With a letter in her out-stretched hand, and countence gaily16 smiling, from the persuasion17 of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good." Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition18, explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to enforce, at her feet, by the eloquence19 of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The hand-writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy20 of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered.
The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings, no language within her reach in her moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate21 violence;- a reproach, however, so entirely22 lost on its object, that, after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled every page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor's application, to entreat23 from Marianne greater openness towards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.
All her impatience24 to be at home again now returned; her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable herself, to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own, except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.
Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and positively25 refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed26 at the table where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement27 of her pen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect on her mother. In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door. "Who can this be?" cried Elinor. "So early too! I thought we had been safe." Marianne moved to the window. "It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation. "We are never safe from him." "He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home." "I will not trust to that," retreating to her own room. "A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others." The event proved her conjecture28 right, though it was founded on injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon did come in; and Elinor, who was convinced that solicitude29 for Marianne brought him thither30, and who saw that solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy31 look, and in his anxious though brief enquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming33 him so lightly. "I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he, after the first salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object- my wish- my sole wish in desiring it- I hope, I believe i
t is- is to be a means of giving comfort:- no, I must not say comfort- not present comfortbut conviction, lasting34 conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for her, for yourself, for your mother- will you allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances which nothing but a very sincere regard- nothing but an earnest desire of being useful- I think I am justified- though where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?" He stopped. "I understand you," said Elinor. "You have something to tell me of Mr. Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. My gratitude35 will be ensured immediately by any information tending to that end, and hers must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it." "You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,but this will give you no idea- I must go farther back. You will find me a very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it shall be a short one. On such a subject," sighing heavily, "can I have little temptation to be diffuse36." He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went on. "You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation- (it is not to be supposed that it could make any impression on you)- a conversation between us one evening at Barton Park- it was the evening of a dance in which I alluded37 to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some measure, your sister Marianne." "Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have not forgotten it." He looked pleased by this remembrance, and added,"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty38, the partiality of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well in mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan39 from her infancy40, and under the guardians
hip of my father. Our ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as, perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable43 of having ever felt. Hers, for me, was, I believe, fervent44 as the attachment45 of your sister to Mr. Willoughby, and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married- married against her inclination46 to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered47. And this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was once her uncle and guardian41. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. I had hoped that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing- but how blindly I relate! I have never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly48, of my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished49 to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father's point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude50 too far, and the blow was a severe one;- but had her marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament51 it. This, however, was not the case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those regret
s which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that, with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their marriage, and I was with my regiment52 in the East Indies), she should fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps,- but I meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose had procured53 my exchange. The shock which her marriage had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation54, "was of trifling55 weight was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was that which threw this gloom,- even now the recollection of what I suffered-" He could say no more, and, rising hastily, walked for a few minutes about the room. Elinor, affected56 by his relation, and still more by his distress57, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few minutes more of silent exertion58 enabled him to proceed with composure. "It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned to England. My first care, when I did arrive, was of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could not trace her beyond her first seducer59, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance; and I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I had been six months in England, I did find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, the same
house, under a similar confinement60, was my unfortunate sister. So altered- so faded- worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains61 of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding62 her- but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it- I have pained you too much already. That she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was- yes, in such a situation, it was my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings63, and under proper attendants; I visited her every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her last moments." Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke64 her feelings in an exclamation65 of tended concern at the fate of his unfortunate friend. "Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing66 you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood- a subject such as this- untouched for fourteen years- it is dangerous to handle it at all! I will be more collected- more concise67. She left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about three years old. She loved the child, and had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was, therefore, placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could; and afte
r the death of my brother (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family property), she visited me at Delaford. I called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year) that I removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I had every reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her (imprudently, as it has since turned out), at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there, for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his daughter better than she deserved; for, with a most obstinate68 and ill-judged secrecy69, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a man, could really, I believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town, and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly70 as he was convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone, all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too." "Good Heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be- could Willoughby!""The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to everybody,
and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured72 me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable73; but had he known it, what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who can feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence74 he had seduced75 in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her, promising76 to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her." "This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor. "His character is now before you,- expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute77 what to do when it was known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister- but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering78 with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet reclaim79 him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless will, turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza; when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented80 by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own suffering
s to be nothing: they proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for or her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion81, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen82 her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions,- with a recital83 which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended, too, with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne from the communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit3 him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,"What! have you met him to-" "I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment; he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure71 it. "Such," said Colonel Prandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter; and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust." "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her l
ying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting84, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem32 for him.
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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acquitting
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的现在分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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seclude
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| vi.使隔离，使孤立，使隐退 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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esteeming
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| v.尊敬( esteem的现在分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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