Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry
replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging
in her accustomary employments.  But a day spent in sitting shivering
over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or
in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of
her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more
indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's
composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against
Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,
trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and
felt no real alarm.

A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the
expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,
confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her
bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending
for the Palmers' apothecary.

He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to
expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by
pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the
word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer,
on her baby's account.  Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the
first to think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor, now
looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Charlotte's
fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with
her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as
idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be
withstood.  Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour
after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his
nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a
few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at
her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was
almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her.  Mrs. Jennings,
however, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her,
declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as
Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care,
to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and
Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate,
desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better
experience in nursing, of material use.

Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and
feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow
would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have
produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for
on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended
the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their
mother by surprise on the following forenoon.  The little she said was
all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to
raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she THEN really believed
herself, that it would be a very short one.

The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the
patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no
amendment, did not appear worse.  Their party was now farther reduced;
for Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity
and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away
by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his
promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel
Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going
likewise.--Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most
acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much
uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she
thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his
stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to
play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her
sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was
gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not
long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was
warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,
in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss
Dashwood in any emergence.

Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.
She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of
Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival.  It
gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it
gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.

Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her
situation continued, with little variation, the same.  Mr. Harris, who
attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and
Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others
was by no means so cheerful.  Mrs. Jennings had determined very early
in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel
Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's
forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence.  He
tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of
the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day
in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the
admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his
mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.

On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of
both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared
his patient materially better.  Her pulse was much stronger, and every
symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit.  Elinor, confirmed
in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her
letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her
friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them
at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able
to travel.

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.-- Towards the
evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and
uncomfortable than before.  Her sister, however, still sanguine, was
willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of
having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the
cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a
slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects.  Her
sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a
considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she
resolved to sit with her during the whole of it.  Mrs. Jennings,
knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to
bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating
herself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with
Marianne.

The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her
sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of
posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint
which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful
a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in
the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,--

"Is mama coming?--"

"Not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting
Marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, I hope, before it is
long.  It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton."

"But she must not go round by London," cried Marianne, in the same
hurried manner.  "I shall never see her, if she goes by London."

Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while
attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse.  It was lower and
quicker than ever!  and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her
alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly
for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.
To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the
latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its
performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by
her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he
was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.

It was no time for hesitation.  Her fears and her difficulties were
immediately before him.  Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to
attempt the removal of:--he listened to them in silent despondence;--but
her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that
seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind,
he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood.
Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him
with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his
servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses
directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.

The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon--or such
a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a companion
whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose
friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a summons
COULD be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance,
would lessen it.

HE, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a
collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost
despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might
look for his return.  Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind.  The
horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon
only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken
too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage.  It was then about
twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for
the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the
night.  It was a night of almost equal suffering to both.  Hour after
hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and
in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared.  Her
apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former
security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow
Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what
her mistress had always thought.

Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her
mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the
heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with
so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,
fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had
been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother
arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.

She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if HE could
not come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after
five o'clock--arrived.  His opinion, however, made some little amends
for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and
unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to
be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment
must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was
communicated to Elinor.  He promised to call again in the course of
three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious
attendant more composed than he had found them.

With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to
their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.
Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no
doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her
conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the
comfort of hope.  Her heart was really grieved.  The rapid decay, the
early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck
a less interested person with concern.  On Mrs. Jennings's compassion
she had other claims.  She had been for three months her companion, was
still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured,
and long unhappy.  The distress of her sister too, particularly a
favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings
considered that Marianne might probably be to HER what Charlotte was to
herself, her sympathy in HER sufferings was very sincere.

Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;--but he came to be
disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce.  His
medicines had failed;--the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more
quiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor.  Elinor, catching
all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in
further advice.  But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something
more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as
confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging
assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss
Dashwood.  She was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she
was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon,
scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from
one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits
oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who
scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the
many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment
had brought on.  Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it
gave fresh misery to her reflections.

About noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of
disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her
friend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her
sister's pulse;--she waited, watched, and examined it again and
again;--and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under
exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to
communicate her hopes.  Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination,
to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from
indulging a thought of its continuance;--and Elinor, conning over every
injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope.  But it was
too late.  Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious
flutter, she bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what.
Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her.
Others even arose to confirm it.  Her breath, her skin, her lips, all
flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes
on her with a rational, though languid, gaze.  Anxiety and hope now
oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity
till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock;--when his assurances,
his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his
expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.

Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her
entirely out of danger.  Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the
partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their
late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,
with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the
probability of an entire recovery.

Elinor could not be cheerful.  Her joy was of a different kind, and led
to any thing rather than to gaiety.  Marianne restored to life, health,
friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with
sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent
gratitude;--but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words,
no smiles.  All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and
strong.

She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the
whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her
enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every
look and every breath.  The possibility of a relapse would of course,
in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was--but when she
saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of
recovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet,
steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every
doubt.

The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected
back.  At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her
mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must
now be travelling towards them.  The Colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely
less an object of pity!--Oh!--how slow was the progress of time which
yet kept them in ignorance!

At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined
Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea.  Of breakfast she had been
kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating
much;--and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of
content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome.  Mrs. Jennings
would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before
her mother's arrival, and allow HER to take her place by Marianne; but
Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment
about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an
unnecessary instant.  Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs
into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,
left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her
own room to write letters and sleep.

The night was cold and stormy.  The wind roared round the house, and
the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,
regarded it not.  Marianne slept through every blast; and the
travellers--they had a rich reward in store, for every present
inconvenience.

The clock struck eight.  Had it been ten, Elinor would have been
convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the
house; and so strong was the persuasion that she DID, in spite of the
ALMOST impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into
the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be
satisfied of the truth.  She instantly saw that her ears had not
deceived her.  The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in
view.  By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be
drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor
mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.

Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at
that moment.  The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the
carriage stopt at the door--of her doubt--her dread--perhaps her
despair!--and of what SHE had to tell!--with such knowledge it was
impossible to be calm.  All that remained to be done was to be speedy;
and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid
with her sister, she hurried down stairs.

The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,
assured her that they were already in the house.  She rushed to the
drawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.

Marianne is more ill than was previously thought, and the Palmer's doctor is sent for. Mrs. Palmer is urged to leave with her child, to prevent it catching the same fever that Marianne has; Mrs. Jennings, though, refuses to leave, and helps Elinor nurse and take care of Marianne in their mother's absence. Mrs. Jennings also insists that Colonel Brandon stays, since he is obviously anxious at Marianne's health and would prefer to stay at Cleveland. Soon Mrs. Jennings and others fear that Marianne might die from her illness; Elinor is alarmed at Marianne's state, and decides that their mother must be sent for. Colonel Brandon offers to go and get her, and Elinor accepts this proposal; at last, Marianne's state improves after a few bad days, which heartens Elinor. Elinor now expects Colonel Brandon and her mother to arrive at any moment; but, when a carriage arrives that night, Elinor is shocked to find that Willoughby has come instead.

In this chapter, Mrs. Jennings emerges as a much more caring, sympathetic person than she has before. Not only does she choose staying and looking after Marianne to going with her daughter, she brings herself to understand how terrible this whole ordeal is for Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood by thinking of her own grief if her daughter Charlotte were seriously ill. Despite her follies earlier in the book, Mrs. Jennings has certainly proved to be a thoroughly good person when put in trying situations; and although her unfounded regard for Lucy Steele persists, she has also proved herself a fair judge of character with regards to John and Fanny Dashwood, whom she appraises as most cold and unkind. The closeness of the bond between Elinor and Marianne is confirmed in this chapter; for, though Marianne has been foolish, selfish, and sometimes less than considerate to her sister, still Elinor's care for Marianne could not be greater when she becomes ill. For all their differences, Elinor and Marianne are each other's most constant companions and know each other better than most, and Marianne's loss might effect Elinor more for these reasons than it could effect even their mother

Marianne gets up the morning and tries to act like she's OK, but she's clearly still really sick. Elinor nurses her calmly, but Colonel Brandon is worried. After another night of illness, Elinor, following Mrs. Jennings's advice, calls the Palmers' doctor. He examines the patient, and says that she should recover from her "infection" in a few days. This freaks out Mrs. Palmer for her baby's sake, though, and she and the baby go to stay with a relative for a while, just to be safe. Mr. Palmer is set to join her in a couple of days. Mrs. Jennings, however, staunchly says that she will stay with Marianne and Elinor until Marianne is better again. Elinor finds her very helpful. Marianne doesn't get any better, but fortunately doesn't get too much worse. However, her illness lasts long enough for Mr. Palmer to have to leave to meet up with his wife, as promised. Colonel Brandon also wonders if he should leave, but he's encouraged to remain by Mr. Palmer and Mrs. Jennings. Two more days pass, and Marianne doesn't mend. Colonel Brandon is extremely worried - he's obviously still in love with her. On the third day, Marianne seems better - but she gets even sicker as evening falls. That night, Marianne is at her worst; she's clearly delirious, and asks for her mother to come. Colonel Brandon goes immediately to Barton to fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Things aren't looking good for Marianne. That morning, Mrs. Jennings awakes to find out that everything has grown worse. She feels incredibly bad for everyone - she's truly concerned about Marianne herself, Elinor, and Mrs. Dashwood. The doctor, Mr. Harris, returns to check on his ailing patient. His medicines didn't work, but he has one last thing to try. This desperate, last-ditch solution, whatever it may be, seems to work; Marianne revives somewhat, and Elinor, despite Mrs. Jennings's advice to be prudent, feels hopeful. By that afternoon, she seems much better, and the doctor says she's out of danger. Mrs. Jennings cheers up instantly, but Elinor can't - she's relieved and full of gratitude, but she can't express it. Instead, she stays with Marianne all afternoon, calming down. That evening, Elinor awaits the arrival of her mother and Colonel Brandon, who are expected around ten o'clock that night. A carriage pulls up around eight instead - and in it is Willoughby!


Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed
the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room,
and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by
his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than
supplication,

"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--I entreat you to
stay."

"No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall NOT stay.  Your business
cannot be with ME.  The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that
Mr. Palmer was not in the house."

"Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and all
his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the
door.  My business is with you, and only you."

"With me!"--in the utmost amazement--"well, sir,--be quick--and if you
can--less violent."

"Sit down, and I will be both."

She hesitated; she knew not what to do.  The possibility of Colonel
Brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her.  But she had
promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was
engaged.  After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that
prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best
promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down.  He
took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by
either.

"Pray be quick, sir,"--said Elinor, impatiently;--"I have no time to
spare."

He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to
hear her.

"Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--"is out
of danger.  I heard it from the servant.  God be praised!--But is it
true? is it really true?"

Elinor would not speak.  He repeated the inquiry with yet greater
eagerness.

"For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?"

"We hope she is."

He rose up, and walked across the room.

"Had I known as much half an hour ago--But since I AM here,"--speaking
with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat--"what does it
signify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be the last time,
perhaps--let us be cheerful together.--I am in a fine mood for
gaiety.-- Tell me honestly"--a deeper glow overspreading his
cheeks--"do you think me most a knave or a fool?"

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever.  She began to
think that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and
of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this
impression she immediately rose, saying,

"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am not
at leisure to remain with you longer.-- Whatever your business may be
with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow."

"I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice
perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk.-- A pint of porter with my cold
beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me."

"At Marlborough!"--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand
what he would be at.

"Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten
minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a
nuncheon at Marlborough."

The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he
spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might
bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she
said, after a moment's recollection,

"Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to feel, and I certainly DO--that after what
has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon
my notice, requires a very particular excuse.--What is it, that you
mean by it?"--

"I mean,"--said he, with serious energy--"if I can, to make you hate me
one degree less than you do NOW.  I mean to offer some kind of
explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart
to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a
blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like
forgiveness from Ma--from your sister."

"Is this the real reason of your coming?"

"Upon my soul it is,"--was his answer, with a warmth which brought all
the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made
her think him sincere.

"If that is all, you may be satisfied already,--for Marianne DOES--she
has LONG forgiven you."

"Has she?"--he cried, in the same eager tone.-- "Then she has forgiven
me before she ought to have done it.  But she shall forgive me again,
and on more reasonable grounds.--NOW will you listen to me?"

Elinor bowed her assent.

"I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and
thoughtfulness on his own,--"how YOU may have accounted for my
behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have
imputed to me.-- Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is
worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing.  When I first
became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view
in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged
to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.
Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but
please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a
kind--It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what SHE
was, that my heart should have been so insensible!  But at first I must
confess, my vanity only was elevated by it.  Careless of her happiness,
thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had
always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every
means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design
of returning her affection."

Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most
angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,

"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me
to listen any longer.  Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by
any thing.-- Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the
subject."

"I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "My fortune was
never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of
associating with people of better income than myself.  Every year since
my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and
though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet
that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for
some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a
woman of fortune.  To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not
a thing to be thought of;--and with a meanness, selfishness,
cruelty--which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss
Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much--I was acting in this manner,
trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.--But
one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish
vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I
did not THEN know what it was to love.  But have I ever known it?--Well
may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my
feelings to vanity, to avarice?--or, what is more, could I have
sacrificed hers?-- But I have done it.  To avoid a comparative poverty,
which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its
horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that
could make it a blessing."

"You did then," said Elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at
one time attached to her?"

"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such
tenderness!--Is there a man on earth who could have done it?--Yes, I
found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the
happiest hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my
intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless.  Even
THEN, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I
allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment
of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my
circumstances were so greatly embarrassed.  I will not reason here--nor
will I stop for YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than
absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already
bound.  The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with
great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself
contemptible and wretched for ever.  At last, however, my resolution
was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone,
to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly
assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to
display.  But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours that
were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her
in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance, to ruin
all my resolution, and with it all my comfort.  A discovery took
place,"--here he hesitated and looked down.--"Mrs. Smith had somehow or
other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest
it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection--but I
need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at her with an
heightened colour and an enquiring eye--"your particular intimacy--you
have probably heard the whole story long ago."

"I have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart
anew against any compassion for him, "I have heard it all.  And how you
will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I
confess is beyond my comprehension."

"Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom you received the account.
Could it be an impartial one?  I acknowledge that her situation and her
character ought to have been respected by me.  I do not mean to justify
myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have
nothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable,
and because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint.  If the violence of
her passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do not mean,
however, to defend myself.  Her affection for me deserved better
treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness
which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return.  I
wish--I heartily wish it had never been.  But I have injured more than
herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me--(may I say
it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind--Oh! how
infinitely superior!"--

"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must say
it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well
be--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her.  Do
not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of
understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.
You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in
Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was
reduced to the extremest indigence."

"But, upon my soul, I did NOT know it," he warmly replied; "I did not
recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense
might have told her how to find it out."

"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?"

"She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be
guessed.  The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her
ignorance of the world--every thing was against me.  The matter itself
I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it.  She was
previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in
general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,
the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my
present visit.  In short, it ended in a total breach.  By one measure I
might have saved myself.  In the height of her morality, good woman!
she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza.  That could
not be--and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.
The night following this affair--I was to go the next morning--was
spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be.  The
struggle was great--but it ended too soon.  My affection for Marianne,
my thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all insufficient
to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false
ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to
feel, and expensive society had increased.  I had reason to believe
myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I
persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained
for me to do.  A heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave
Devonshire;--I was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some
apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement.  But
whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a
point of long debate.  To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and
I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my
resolution.  In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity,
as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable,
and left her miserable--and left her hoping never to see her again."

"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said Elinor, reproachfully; "a note
would have answered every purpose.-- Why was it necessary to call?"

"It was necessary to my own pride.  I could not bear to leave the
country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the
neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between
Mrs. Smith and myself--and I resolved therefore on calling at the
cottage, in my way to Honiton.  The sight of your dear sister, however,
was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.
You were all gone I do not know where.  I had left her only the evening
before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right!  A
few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how
happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to
Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body!  But in
this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense
of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling.  Her
sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was
obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never shall forget
it--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me!--Oh,
God!--what a hard-hearted rascal I was!"

They were both silent for a few moments.  Elinor first spoke.

"Did you tell her that you should soon return?"

"I do not know what I told her," he replied, impatiently; "less than
was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more
than was justified by the future.  I cannot think of it.--It won't
do.--Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her
kindness and confidence.  Thank Heaven! it DID torture me.  I was
miserable.  Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it
gives me to look back on my own misery.  I owe such a grudge to myself
for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past
sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now.  Well, I
went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was
only indifferent.  My journey to town--travelling with my own horses,
and therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own reflections
so cheerful--when I looked forward every thing so inviting!--when I
looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!--oh, it was a blessed
journey!"

He stopped.

"Well, sir," said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for
his departure, "and this is all?"

"Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town?-- That infamous
letter--Did she shew it you?"

"Yes, I saw every note that passed."

"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in
town the whole time,) what I felt is--in the common phrase, not to be
expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any
emotion--my feelings were very, very painful.--Every line, every word
was--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,
would forbid--a dagger to my heart.  To know that Marianne was in town
was--in the same language--a thunderbolt.--Thunderbolts and
daggers!--what a reproof would she have given me!--her taste, her
opinions--I believe they are better known to me than my own,--and I am
sure they are dearer."

Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this
extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it
her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.

"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.--Remember that you are married.
Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear."

"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in
former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been
separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of
faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse.  I say
awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in
some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened
villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that
she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our
past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my
shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,
overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be
heartily glad to hear she is well married.'-- But this note made me
know myself better.  I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than
any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously.  But
every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me.  To retreat
was impossible.  All that I had to do, was to avoid you both.  I sent
no answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her
farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in
Berkeley Street;--but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a
cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely
out of the house one morning, and left my name."

"Watched us out of the house!"

"Even so.  You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how
often I was on the point of falling in with you.  I have entered many a
shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by.  Lodging as I did
in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a
glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant
watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep
out of your sight, could have separated us so long.  I avoided the
Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was
likely to prove an acquaintance in common.  Not aware of their being in
town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his
coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's.  He asked me
to a party, a dance at his house in the evening.--Had he NOT told me as
an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have
felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him.  The next
morning brought another short note from Marianne--still affectionate,
open, artless, confiding--everything that could make MY conduct most
hateful.  I could not answer it.  I tried--but could not frame a
sentence.  But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day.
If you CAN pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was THEN.
With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the
happy lover to another woman!--Those three or four weeks were worse
than all.  Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on
me; and what a sweet figure I cut!--what an evening of agony it was!--
Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in
such a tone!--Oh, God!--holding out her hand to me, asking me for an
explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking
solicitude on my face!--and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other
hand, looking all that was--Well, it does not signify; it is over
now.-- Such an evening!--I ran away from you all as soon as I could;
but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as
death.--THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her;--the last
manner in which she appeared to me.  It was a horrid sight!--yet when I
thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me
to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw
her last in this world.  She was before me, constantly before me, as I
travelled, in the same look and hue."

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded.  Willoughby first
rousing himself, broke it thus:

"Well, let me make haste and be gone.  Your sister is certainly better,
certainly out of danger?"

"We are assured of it."

"Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne."

"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to
say about that?"

"Yes, yes, THAT in particular.  Your sister wrote to me again, you
know, the very next morning.  You saw what she said.  I was
breakfasting at the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was
brought to me there from my lodgings.  It happened to catch Sophia's
eye before it caught mine--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the
hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion.  Some vague
report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in
Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding
evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous
than ever.  Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is
delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly,
and read its contents.  She was well paid for her impudence.
She read what made her wretched.  Her wretchedness I could have
borne, but her passion--her malice--At all events it must be appeased.
And, in short--what do you think of my wife's style of
letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was it not?"

"Your wife!--The letter was in your own hand-writing."

"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as
I was ashamed to put my name to.  The original was all her own--her own
happy thoughts and gentle diction.  But what could I do!--we were
engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--But I am
talking like a fool.  Preparation!--day!--In honest words, her money
was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be
done to prevent a rupture.  And after all, what did it signify to my
character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language
my answer was couched?--It must have been only to one end.  My business
was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a
bluster was of little importance.-- 'I am ruined for ever in their
opinion--' said I to myself--'I am shut out for ever from their
society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will
only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings, as,
in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and
parted with the last relics of Marianne.  Her three notes--unluckily
they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their
existence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to put them up, and
could not even kiss them.  And the lock of hair--that too I had always
carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by
Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--all, every
memento was torn from me."

"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable," said Elinor, while
her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;
"you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my
sister.  You had made your own choice.  It was not forced on you.  Your
wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least.  She
must be attached to you, or she would not have married you.  To treat
her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to
Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience."

"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh.-- "She does
not deserve your compassion.--She knew I had no regard for her when we
married.--Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be
happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.--And now do you pity
me, Miss Dashwood?--or have I said all this to no purpose?-- Am I--be
it only one degree--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was
before?--My intentions were not always wrong.  Have I explained away
any part of my guilt?"

"Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little.-- You have proved
yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you.  You have
proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked.  But I hardly
know--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could have
made it worse."

"Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been
telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well
as in yours.  You tell me that she has forgiven me already.  Let me be
able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present
feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more
gentle, less dignified, forgiveness.  Tell her of my misery and my
penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if
you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever."

"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be
called, your justification.  But you have not explained to me the
particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness."

"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and
when he saw who I was--for the first time these two months--he spoke to
me.--That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without
surprise or resentment.  Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid
soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister,
could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought
to--though probably he did not think it WOULD--vex me horridly.  As
bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne
Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter that
morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most
imminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c.--I was too much
shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the
undiscerning Sir John.  His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer;
and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he
almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise
about a pointer puppy.  What I felt on hearing that your sister was
dying--and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth,
scorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could I tell what
horrid projects might not have been imputed?  ONE person I was sure
would represent me as capable of any thing-- What I felt was
dreadful!--My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this
morning I was in my carriage.  Now you know all."

Elinor made no answer.  Her thoughts were silently fixed on the
irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent
habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the
character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person
and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a
feeling, affectionate temper.  The world had made him extravagant and
vain--Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.
Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another,
had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least
its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed.  Each faulty
propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.
The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against
every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no
longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the
sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,
was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more
incurable nature.  From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the
end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie
at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and
said--

"There is no use in staying here; I must be off."

"Are you going back to town?"

"No--to Combe Magna.  I have business there; from thence to town in a
day or two.  Good bye."

He held out his hand.  She could not refuse to give him hers;--he
pressed it with affection.

"And you DO think something better of me than you did?"--said he,
letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting
he was to go.

Elinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished him
well--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentle
counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it.  His answer was
not very encouraging.

"As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can.
Domestic happiness is out of the question.  If, however, I am allowed
to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it
may be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may be
something to live for.  Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.
Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again--"

Elinor stopped him with a reproof.

"Well,"--he replied--"once more good bye. I shall now go away and live
in dread of one event."

"What do you mean?"

"Your sister's marriage."

"You are very wrong.  She can never be more lost to you than she is
now."

"But she will be gained by some one else.  And if that some one should
be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear--but I will not
stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that
where I have most injured I can least forgive.  Good bye,--God bless
you!"

And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.

Elinor is horrified at seeing Willoughby there, and shocked when he says his only business is with her. Willoughby asks if Marianne is recovering, and Elinor says she is; Willoughby says he is there to explain himself and gain some forgiveness, if he can. Willoughby says he led Marianne on out of vanity, and didn't know that she actually loved him; he finally began to love her as well, and would have proposed to her, had his aunt, Mrs. Smith, not annulled his legacy, and left him with heavy debts. Willoughby also tries to excuse himself for seducing and dumping Miss Williams, Colonel Brandon's ward, although he is making poor excuses for his truly inexcusable behavior. Apparently, he also avoided them while they were in town, and watched them to make sure he wouldn't stumble on them accidentally. He also says that the letter he sent Marianne was written by his wife, again attempting to excuse his cruel behavior. By saying that he also has no regard for his wife, and still loves Marianne, he attempts to gain Elinor's compassion; Elinor's opinion of him is somewhat bettered in being assured that he did, and still does, have affection for Marianne. Elinor cannot think him a total blackguard since he has been heavily punished for all his mistakes, and now must endure a loveless marriage for the sake of money; Willoughby leaves with this assurance, lamenting that Marianne is lost to him forever.

The reintroduction of Willoughby seems particularly designed to prove him as callow and cruel as his behavior to Marianne in London suggested. He is little like he was at Barton, and indeed seems like a pure villain at first; there could not be any greater contrast between his former appearance, and how he is acting to Elinor when he tries to make light of his completely irresponsible behavior. He does become somewhat more sympathetic through the course of the conversation, as flashes of sincerity become apparent, and his continuing regard for Marianne is confirmed. Elinor may be right, in believing that he would be of a character wholly as open and good as Marianne's, had he been possessed with less vanity and less tendency toward idleness and irresponsibility. But, Willoughby has been punished and deserves all of this punishment, although with his present bitterness there is perhaps little hope of him amending his character. Willoughby's cryptic statement about Marianne soon marrying someone he "could least bear" obviously is meant to foreshadow a union between Marianne and Colonel Brandon. However, how Willoughby would be able to guess at this is a mystery. The Colonel is certainly as resolved on Marianne as he always was, and has proved his honor, and his regard for her and her family, repeatedly. Although Marianne has not yet come to love or appreciate the Colonel, this final appearance of Willoughby will probably finally put her grief from her mind, and perhaps prepare her to accept the honorable affections of the Colonel

Elinor is justifiably horrified. What is he doing here? He begs her to stay and talk to him, saying that nothing can make him leave - he has to talk to Elinor. Elinor agrees to speak with him, worrying that Colonel Brandon will show up while Willoughby's there...which would be supremely awkward and possibly dangerous. First off, Willoughby wants to make sure that Marianne's out of danger - he's been worried about her. He's thrilled to hear that she's OK, and Elinor realizes that he's drunk. Apparently, Willoughby left London that morning, and made a mad dash all the way to Cleveland, after finding out that Marianne was deathly ill. He then goes on to explain his past actions to Elinor - he wants to tell her everything about his relationship with Marianne, and what resulted from it. Now we get their relationship from Willoughby's perspective: When Willoughby first came to Devonshire, he viewed Marianne as a kind of plaything - like the other women he'd loved and left . Because of his debts and financial dependence upon his elderly aunt, Mrs. Smith, it would have been impossible for him to marry Marianne. However, he realized that he actually did love Marianne, unlike those other girls. Unfortunately, in pursuit of wealth, he abandoned Marianne - the only thing that could have made him happy. Elinor softens a bit, realizing that he means what he says. Willoughby insists that the time he spent with Marianne was the happiest of his life, and he was sure that his intentions were honorable - he really meant to marry her. At that time, though, Mrs. Smith found out about the Eliza situation, and Willoughby got in trouble. While he claims that Eliza herself was also partly to blame, he can't justify his actions. What he feels worst about is the fact that his actions with regard to Eliza also inadvertently hurt Marianne. Mrs. Smith, who's a good, morally upright woman, told Willoughby that she would forgive him for everything if he would marry Eliza. He refused, and he was booted out of her house and her good favor. Willoughby spent the night deliberating on his situation - in the end, his fear of poverty outweighed his love for Marianne. He left Devonshire, hoping that he would never see Marianne again, and thus never doubt his actions. Elinor asks why he didn't call or write when they were in London; he reveals that right before he left, he did say goodbye to Marianne, and it was almost too painful for him to bear. He was totally miserable, and the thought of seeing them in London was too much. Elinor feels bad for the poor guy, but is worried that Colonel Brandon is on his way. She pushes him to wrap up the story. Willoughby then relates the story of the letters that passed between him and Marianne in London. He was also tormented by the fact that she was there, so close, yet so far. He claims that her opinions and feelings are even more important to him than his own. It's clear that he's still madly in love with Marianne, even though he's married to someone else. Marianne's notes reminded him of how much he loved her, and he even wavered for a moment in his resolve to leave her behind - however, his engagement to Miss Grey was settled already, and nothing could be done. He wanted to simply avoid the Dashwoods. He admits creepily that he even kind of stalked them, just to see how his beloved Marianne was doing - he was clearly desperate and miserable, and engaged to a woman he simply didn't love. The evening of the infamous ball was the worst - Marianne on one side, and his current wife, Sophia, on the other. Then, when he found out that Marianne was dying, he was filled with desperation once more. Willoughby realizes that he should go, and checks one more time to make sure Marianne's OK. Before he leaves, Elinor asks him curiously about the letter that he wrote in response. Apparently, he wrote it under the stern eye of his fiancee , who found out about Marianne, and forced him to copy a letter of her construction and send it to Marianne. It was Miss Grey who forced him to send back all of his mementos of Marianne. Elinor makes it clear to Willoughby that it's no use trying to escape it, or trying to take it out on his wife - everything that has come to pass is his fault. He tries to justify his complaints, saying that his wife is a terrible woman, who knew all along that he didn't love her. Anyway, Willoughby makes Elinor promise to tell Marianne all of this once she's better. Finally, he explains how he found out about all of this - he ran into Sir John Middleton at the theatre last night, who told him that Marianne was dying of a fever at Cleveland. Sir John, bless his heart, was trying to make Willoughby feel bad in punishment for all his bad deeds; clearly, it worked. Sir John, seeing how upset Willoughby was, felt bad for him and offered him a puppy. Good old Sir John. Elinor tries to think over all of this astonishing information, and has no answer for him. Willoughby rises to leave - he's going home to Combe Magna before returning to town. He shakes hands affectionately with Elinor, and asks hopefully if she can forgive him, at least a little. She says that she does, and encourages him to try to be as happy as possible. Willoughby dismisses this as impossible, and says encouragingly that if he were "at liberty again" to marry , perhaps he and Marianne might... well, never mind. Willoughby finally leaves, saying that there's only one thing he dreads - Marianne's marriage, especially if it's to Colonel Brandon. Willoughby flees.

Arriving in a great state of agitation, Willoughby persuaded Elinor to listen to his story. He told her that, at first, he had not been serious about his involvement with Marianne and looked at it as only a boost to his ego. But he fell in love with her and decided to become engaged to her. However, the day before his intended proposal, Mrs. Smith, his relative, discovered how badly he had treated Colonel Brandon's ward and offered to forgive him if he would marry the girl. He refused and decided to marry the wealthy Sophia. He declared that he had been tortured for his wrongdoing. The letter which he had written to Marianne had been composed by his fiancee, now his wife, who had forced him to copy it after she had snatched Marianne's letter from him and read it. Sir John Middleton had met him the night before and told him of Marianne's morbid condition. Since he still loved her, he had rushed to Cleveland to exonerate himself with her before she died. He was joyous to learn this wasn't necessary, but being already there, he wanted to clear himself with Elinor.

Elinor again shows us her generous nature by allowing the wretched Willoughby to tell her his story and afterwards by feeling genuine compassion for the man who has hurt her sister so terribly. Willoughby has been the cause of his own troubles and is forced to live with the results of his mistakes. His wife Sophia is painted by him to be selfish and evil tempered. She married Willoughby knowing he didn't care for her. Willoughby is well aware that he sacrificed any hope of domestic happiness for great wealth. Elinor understands him and pities him.

Willoughby pours out his heart to Elinor. He had heard about Marianne's illness and thus decided to undertake a journey to Cleveland. He insists on talking extensively to Elinor. He tells her about his genuine affection for Marianne. In the beginning he had the intention of only flirting with her, since he had wanted to marry a wealthy girl. His dalliance with Marianne had to be cut short because of Mrs. Smith. The old lady had insisted that Willoughby marry Miss Williams, and when he had refused to obey her order, she had disowned him. Hence, Willoughby had to leave for London. In the city he had met Miss Grey, who is wealthy, and had become engaged to her. Marianne's letter had reached the hand of his fiancee, who had made him write the offensive letter to Marianne, whose heart was broken. Willoughby concludes his tale with regret at marrying the wealthy but cold Miss Grey.

Notes Willoughby arrives at Cleveland in order to clear his conscience because he has feared that Marianne might die from this strange illness. He portrays himself as a pitiable creature, dominated by a rich but cruel wife. He tries to justify his actions with Miss Williams and professes love for Marianne. At the end of his emotional tale, he still appears as a heartless man who has deceived two innocent girls. Even Elinor, who possesses a generous heart, fails to excuse him for his wrongs. She also condemns his criticism of his wife. She considers his behavior unpardonable and allows him to relate his tale only out of a sense of courtesy. CHAPTER 45 Summary After Willoughby leaves, Elinor continues to think about what he has told her. Elinor's generous heart sympathizes with Willoughby's plight, even though she considers him selfish in the ultimate analysis. She is one of the few characters prepared to listen to Willoughby after all that he has done. Mrs. Dashwood arrives in great agony. Elinor relieves her of her anxiety by informing her immediately about Marianne's recovery. Nevertheless, Mrs. Dashwood rushes in to meet her sick daughter. Marianne is delighted to see her mother. After their reunion, Mrs. Dashwood reveals to Elinor that Colonel Brandon has confessed his love for Marianne and his desire to marry her. She thinks highly of Brandon and is glad about the prospect of her daughter becoming his wife. Notes Elinor, aware of her mother's anxiety, informs her immediately about Marianne's recovery, thus sparing the elderly lady from further agony. She also offers solace to her mother. Mrs. Dashwood is like Marianne in her temperament. She is sensitive, emotional and judgmental. She criticizes Willoughby and praises Brandon because the Colonel has professed his love for Marianne. She attributes exaggerated defects and merits to Willoughby and Brandon respectively, according to the changed circumstances. Mrs. Dashwood even finds fault with Willoughby's appearance and manners because he has rejected her daughter. CHAPTER 46 Summary Marianne recovers steadily. She is grateful to the Colonel for taking the trouble of bringing her mother to Cleveland, and at such short notice. Brandon is overwhelmed by the attention she gives him. He arranges a special carriage to take the family to Barton and prepares to leave for Delaford. Marianne bears the journey well and becomes emotional upon reaching Barton. At home, she devises a program to keep herself occupied. Elinor is relieved to see her sister's renewed zest for life. One day, as they go out for a walk, Marianne takes Elinor to the spot where she fell and where Willoughby rescued her. Elinor informs Marianne of Willoughby's visit to Cleveland and relates his tale of confession. Marianne is moved to tears and asks Elinor to share the facts with her mother as well. Notes The chapter presents a mature Marianne. She appears confident and cheerful. She withstands the pressures of the journey with a smile. She is thankful to those who have helped her to recover. She is courteous enough to express her gratitude to the Colonel. She also shows a desire to make the best of her life. At Barton, she resolves to utilize her time by reading, practicing music and appreciating the beauty of nature through walks. She wants to forget the past and start life anew. Her sincere desire is to divert her mind from thoughts of Willoughby "by religion, by reason,  by constant employment." Marianne regrets her past behavior with friends and acquaintances. Her days of sickness have made her contemplative: she emerges from the illness a different person. She resolves to understand and appreciate the views of the people around her. Elinor, who had been burdened with Willoughby's story, finally gets the opportunity to reveal it to Marianne: when Marianne asks Elinor to gauge the true feelings of Willoughby for her, Elinor relates Willoughby's confession to her. Marianne is moved to tears after hearing the story, but at the same time, she is relieved to hear the facts.


Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the
sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a
crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness
was the general result, to think even of her sister.

Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most
worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a
degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made
her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a
tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
within herself--to his wishes than to his merits.  She felt that his
influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not
in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that
open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;
and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even
innocent to indulge.  But she felt that it was so, long, long before
she could feel his influence less.

When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her
just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of
her hopes.  Elinor's heart was full.  The past, the present, the
future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's
expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits
which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful
of betraying herself to her sister.  Short was the time, however, in
which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after
Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the
sound of another carriage.--Eager to save her mother from every
unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the
hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support
her as she entered it.

Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced
almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to
inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither
for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;--and her
mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much
overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears.  She
was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her
friend;--and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to
speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals
to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her
gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss
of the moment.  He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than
her own.

As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her
first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,
rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only
checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther
sleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when
the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing
her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for
conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by
every nurse around her.  Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night;
and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed.  But
the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the
most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by
irritation of spirits.  Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now
allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would
not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now
acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before.  But her
promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful.  She
dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne
might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be
happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.
Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS
sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward
of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.
Willoughby's death.

The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened
to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her
uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out
for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further
intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,
that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,
as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.

Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of
Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly
declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.  Elinor could
not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes
wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward.  But Mrs.
Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment
which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to
think only of what would increase it.  Marianne was restored to her
from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken
judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had
contributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another
source of joy unthought of by Elinor.  It was thus imparted to her, as
soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.

"At last we are alone.  My Elinor, you do not yet know all my
happiness.  Colonel Brandon loves Marianne.  He has told me so himself."

Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and
not surprised, was all silent attention.

"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your
composure now.  Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my
family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as
the object most desirable.  And I believe Marianne will be the most
happy with him of the two."

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,
characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be
carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and
therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled.  It came
out quite unawares, quite undesignedly.  I, you may well believe, could
talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I saw
that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship,
as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather,
not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings,
made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for
Marianne.  He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of
seeing her."

Here, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions
of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's
active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.

"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby
ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or
constant--which ever we are to call it--has subsisted through all the
knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless
young man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could
he have seen her happy with another--Such a noble mind!--such openness,
such sincerity!--no one can be deceived in HIM."

"Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is
well established."

"I know it is,"--replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning,
I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased
by it.  But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready
friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men."

"His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on ONE act of
kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the
case, would have prompted him.  To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he
has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him;
and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very
considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne
can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our
connection the greatest blessing to us in the world.  What answer did
you give him?--Did you allow him to hope?"

"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
Marianne might at that moment be dying.  But he did not ask for hope or
encouragement.  His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible
effusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent.  Yet
after a time I DID say, for at first I was quite overcome--that if she
lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in
promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful
security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every
encouragement in my power.  Time, a very little time, I tell him, will
do everything;--Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a
man as Willoughby.-- His own merits must soon secure it."

"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made
him equally sanguine."

"No.--He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change
in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again
free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a
difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her.  There,
however, he is quite mistaken.  His age is only so much beyond hers as
to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and
his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make
your sister happy.  And his person, his manners too, are all in his
favour.  My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so
handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much
more pleasing in his countenance.-- There was always a something,--if
you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like."

Elinor could NOT remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her
assent, continued,

"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to
me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to
be more solidly attaching to Marianne.  Their gentleness, their genuine
attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much
more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often
artificial, and often ill-timed of the other.  I am very sure myself,
that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved
himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with
HIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon."

She paused.--Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her
dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.

"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs.
Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I
hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly MUST be some small
house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our
present situation."

Poor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but
her spirit was stubborn.

"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares
about THAT;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it
really is, I am sure it must be a good one."

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and
Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her
friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.

Elinor, in spite of herself, feels for Willoughby, as she is assured of his grief at being forever parted from Marianne and from their family. Mrs. Dashwood finally arrives with the Colonel, and Elinor assures her that Marianne is out of danger; both Mrs. Dashwood and the Colonel are relieved, and Mrs. Dashwood observes how glad the Colonel is at this news. Elinor wrestles with telling her sister of Willoughby, and puts it off until her sister is truly better. Mrs. Dashwood tells Elinor that the Colonel had confessed his love for Marianne during the journey from Barton; Mrs. Dashwood wishes the Colonel and Marianne to be married, although Elinor sees Marianne's lack of regard for him as a certain hindrance. Mrs. Dashwood says she thinks the Colonel far more amiable than Willoughby, and knows he is much more honorable; Elinor knows she is saying this to soothe her own recent disappointments regarding Willoughby, although her perceptions of the Colonel's character are correct. Elinor wishes the Colonel well in securing Marianne's affections, as her mother does, but is more pessimistic regarding Marianne's temperament, and ability to accept the Colonel so readily, after confessing such disdain for him in the past.

That Mrs. Dashwood has seized upon the notion that the Colonel should marry Marianne is another encouragement for the match between them to be made; however, Marianne's affections are still in doubt, and probably still devoted to Willoughby. The difference in the temperaments of Elinor and her mother is fully displayed in this chapter, as her mother wants things to work out, as does Elinor, but does not consider the facts thoroughly, nor take account of Marianne's feelings. Elinor is perhaps too pessimistic in thinking that Marianne could never grow to like the Colonel, but she sees her mother's haste to have them together, and her lack of consideration for Marianne's stubbornness, as foolhardy. Mrs. Dashwood's well-meaning, but false confessions of her former doubts about Willoughby are a prime example of her wishful thinking; Mrs. Dashwood would have things work out to her satisfaction, but also refuses to see that her plans might not prevail. However, the Colonel shows that he is fully sensible, like Elinor, in not being too convinced in the certainty of a match between himself and Marianne. He is the more realistic of the parties; he has more hope than Elinor, yet knows that his success depends completely on the alteration of Marianne's feelings toward him, which cannot be assured. Elinor's regret on Willoughby's behalf is perhaps a little excessive; by this point, it should be obvious that although he is not a bad person, he is certainly no good for Marianne, and he is better off forgotten. The Colonel certainly deserves Marianne's affections now, and with any luck, Marianne will amend her former opinions and begin to like him

Elinor muses over the fact that she actually feels kind of bad for Willoughby, despite his ill deeds. She goes to check on Marianne, who's feeling much refreshed after a long nap. Mrs. Dashwood and Colonel Brandon finally arrive just then, and her mother is totally overwhelmed by tears of relief and joy. Mother and daughters are reunited, and after a brief moment of excitement, Marianne goes back to sleep with her mother watching over her. Elinor can't stop thinking about "poor Willoughby," and feels bad for judging him so harshly. She dreads telling Marianne - what will it do to her sister? Will Marianne be able to love again? Then, her thoughts turn to Colonel Brandon, and she feels kind of bad for feeling bad for Willoughby - after all, the Colonel's sufferings were much worse. Marianne gets better every day, and Mrs. Dashwood is overjoyed. Elinor asks her what she's so happy about, and she responds that the Colonel has told her that he loves Marianne. Elinor is calm, composed, and attentive - Mrs. Dashwood explains that she loves the idea of Colonel Brandon marrying one of her daughters, and Marianne would probably be happier with him. Sigh, Mrs. Dashwood... she always means so well. Apparently, Colonel Brandon spilled his guts to Mrs. Dashwood in the carriage, and admitted that he has loved Marianne from the moment he met her. Elinor realizes that her mother has embellished all of this with her own fancy touches. Mrs. Dashwood gushes about how wonderful Colonel Brandon is, and Elinor acquiesces - yes, everyone agrees that Colonel Brandon is a great guy. Colonel Brandon is cautious in his hopes; he doesn't think that Marianne will shift her allegiances to him so soon after Willoughby. Mrs. Dashwood doesn't see how her daughter will be able to resist her next suitor - after all, Mrs. Dashwood herself believes that Willoughby was worthless. As far as Mrs. Dashwood is concerned, it's a done deal. She's already planning on moving the whole family closer to Delaford. Elinor feels a little anxious - after all, she doesn't want to be too close to Edward and Lucy. Elinor goes away to think all of this over; she hopes that Colonel Brandon will succeed, but she does feel a little bad for Willoughby.