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Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen Chapter 47 Chapter 47 Mrs.
Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite.
She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt,
But the feelings of the past could not be recalled.
Nothing could restore him,
With a faith unbroken,
A character unblemished,
To Marianne.
Nothing could replace him therefore in her former esteem,
Nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon.
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 he had been for some time previously sitting,
Her rising colour as she spoke and her unsteady voice plainly showed.
I wish to assure you both,
Said she,
That I see everything as you can desire me to do.
It is a great relief to me.
I have now heard exactly what I wish to hear.
I am now perfectly satisfied.
I wish for no change.
I could never have been happy with him.
After knowing,
As sooner or later I must have known,
All this.
I know it,
I know it,
Cried her mother,
Happy with a man of libertine practices.
No,
My Marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man.
Marianne sighed and repeated,
I wish for no change.
You consider the matter,
Said Eleanor,
Exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it,
And I dare say you perceive reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments,
In which you would have been made poorly supported by an affection on his side much less certain.
Had you married,
You must have been always poor.
His demands and your inexperience together on a small,
Very small income must have brought on distresses which would not be the less grievous to you from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before.
Your sense of honour and honesty would have led you,
I know,
When aware of your situation,
To attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible,
And perhaps as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort,
You might have been suffered to practice it.
But beyond that,
Had you endeavoured,
However reasonably,
To abridge his enjoyments,
It is not to be feared that,
Instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish,
You would have lessened your own influence on his heart and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties.
Marianne's lips quivered and she repeated the word selfish in a tone that implied,
Do you really think him selfish?
The whole of his behaviour,
Replied Eleanor,
From the beginning to the end of the affair has been grounded on selfishness.
His own enjoyment or his own ease was his ruling principle.
It is very true,
Said Marianne.
My happiness never was his object.
At present,
Continued Eleanor,
He regrets what he's done.
And why does he regret it?
Because he finds it has not made him happy.
He thinks only that he's married a woman of less amiable temper than yourself.
But does it thence follow that had he married you,
He would have been happy?
He would have had a wife whose temper he could make no complaint,
But he would have always been necessitous,
Always poor,
And probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of 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 I have 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 Eleanor,
Satisfied that each felt their own error,
Wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits.
She therefore,
Pursuing the first subject,
Immediately continued.
One observation may,
I think,
Be fairly drawn from the whole of the story,
That all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue in his behaviour to Eliza Williams.
Marianne ascended most feelingly to the remark,
And her mother was led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits,
Warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate.
Her daughter did not look,
However,
As if much of it were heard by her.
Eleanor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward.
Some letters had passed between her and 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 no inquiries on so prohibited a subject,
But conclude him still to be at Oxford.
Which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence.
Eleanor was not doomed,
However,
To be in long ignorance of this measure.
Their manservant had been sent one morning to exit her on business,
And when,
As he waited at table,
He had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand,
This was his voluntary communication.
I suppose you know,
Ma'am,
That I have not been able to find any evidence that Miss Ferrars is married.
Marianne gave a violent start,
Fixed her eyes upon Eleanor,
Saw her turning pale,
And fell back in her chair in hysterics.
Mrs Dashwood had intuitively looked in the same direction,
Was shocked to perceive by Eleanor's countenance how much she really suffered,
And knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention.
The servant had sense enough to call one of the maids,
Who,
With Mrs Dashwood's assistance,
Supported Marianne into the other room.
By that time,
Marianne was rather better,
And her mother returned to Eleanor,
Who,
Though still much disordered,
Had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas as to the source of his intelligence.
Mrs Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself.
Who told you that Mr Ferrars was married,
Thomas?
I saw Mr Ferrars myself,
Ma'am,
This morning in Exeter,
And his lady too.
Miss Steelers was.
They were stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn.
I saw directly it was the youngest Miss Steel,
So I took off my hat,
And she knew me,
And called to me.
She inquired after you,
Ma'am,
And the young ladies,
Especially Miss Marianne,
And bid me I should give her compliments and Mr Ferrars,
And how sorry they was I had not time to come on and see you,
But they was in a great hurry to go forwards.
But did she tell you that she was married,
Thomas?
Yes,
Ma'am.
She smiled,
And said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts.
Was Mr Ferrars in the carriage with her?
Yes,
Ma'am.
I just see him leaning back in it,
But he didn't look up.
He never was a gentleman much for talking.
Was there no one else in the carriage?
No,
Ma'am,
Only those two.
Do you know where they came from?
They came straight from town,
As Miss Lucy,
Mrs Ferrars,
Told me.
And are going further westward?
Yes,
Ma'am,
But not to bide long.
They will soon be back again,
And then they'll be sure and call here.
Mrs Dashwood now looked at her daughter,
But Eleanor knew better than to expect them.
She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message,
And was very confident that Edward would never come near them again.
Thomas's intelligence seemed over.
Eleanor looked as if she wished to hear more.
Did Miss Ferrars look well?
Yes,
Ma'am,
She said how she was very well.
Mrs Dashwood could think of no other question.
Marianne had already sent to say she should eat nothing more.
Mrs Dashwood's and Eleanor's appetites were equally lost,
And Margaret might think herself very well off,
That with so much uneasiness,
As both her sisters had lately experienced,
So much reason,
As they had often had to be careless of their meals,
She had never been obliged to go without her dinner before.
When the dessert and the wine were arranged,
And Mrs Dashwood and Eleanor were left by themselves,
They remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence.
Mrs Dashwood found she had erred in relying on Eleanor's representation of herself,
And justly concluded that everything had been expressly softened at the time,
To spare her from an increase of unhappiness,
Suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne.
She found she had been misled by the careful,
The considerate attention of her daughter,
To think the attachment which once she had so well understood,
Much slighter in reality than she had been wont to believe,
Or than it was now proved to be.
She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust,
Inattentive nay,
Almost unkind to her Eleanor.
That Marianne's affliction,
Because more acknowledged,
More immediately before her,
Had too much engrossed her tenderness,
And led her to forget that in Eleanor,
She might have a daughter suffering almost as much,
Certainly with less self-provocation,
And greater fortitude.
