chapter 31


From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the
next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had
closed her eyes.

Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and
before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and
again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on
Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on
Marianne's, as before.  Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as
unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every
consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.  At one moment she
was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at
another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third
could resist it with energy.  In one thing, however, she was uniform,
when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the
presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to
endure it.  Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs.
Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.

"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel.  Her kindness
is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness.  All that she wants
is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it."

Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her
sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable
refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her
on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished
manner.  Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be
that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an
excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid.  She expected
from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she
judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on
herself.  Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together
in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.
Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own
weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though
Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,
from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,

"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good."

Marianne heard enough.  In one moment her imagination placed before her
a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,
explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and
instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room
to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances
of his letter.  The work of one moment was destroyed by the next.  The
hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her;
and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an
ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had
never suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her
moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could
reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with
passionate violence--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its
object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still
referring her to the letter of comfort.  But the letter, when she was
calm enough to read it, brought little comfort.  Willoughby filled
every page.  Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and
relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by
Elinor's application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards
them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection
for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each
other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.

All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was
dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken
confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone.
Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne
to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of
patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she
obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy
till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;
and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for
the rest of the morning.  Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the
pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne's
letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then
sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat
her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the
drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table
where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over
her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly
over its effect on her mother.

In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when
Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was
startled by a rap at the door.

"Who can this be?" cried Elinor.  "So early too! I thought we HAD been
safe."

Marianne moved to the window--

"It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation.  "We are never safe
from HIM."

"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home."

"I will not trust to THAT," retreating to her own room.  "A man who has
nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on
that of others."

The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on
injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon DID come in; and Elinor, who
was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who
saw THAT solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his
anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister
for esteeming him so lightly.

"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he, after the first
salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more
easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you
alone, which I was very desirous of doing.  My object--my wish--my sole
wish in desiring it--I hope, I believe it is--is to be a means of
giving comfort;--no, I must not say comfort--not present comfort--but
conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind.  My regard for
her, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by
relating some circumstances which nothing but a VERY sincere
regard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--I think I am
justified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing
myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be
wrong?" He stopped.

"I understand you," said Elinor.  "You have something to tell me of Mr.
Willoughby, that will open his character farther.  Your telling it will
be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn Marianne.  MY
gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to
that end, and HERS must be gained by it in time.  Pray, pray let me
hear it."

"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,--but
this will give you no idea--I must go farther back.  You will find me a
very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin.  A
short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it SHALL be
a short one.  On such a subject," sighing heavily, "can I have little
temptation to be diffuse."

He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went
on.

"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be
supposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation
between us one evening at Barton Park--it was the evening of a
dance--in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in
some measure, your sister Marianne."

"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have NOT forgotten it." He looked pleased
by this remembrance, and added,

"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender
recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well
in mind as person.  The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of
fancy and spirits.  This lady was one of my nearest relations, an
orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father.  Our
ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were
playfellows and friends.  I cannot remember the time when I did not
love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as
perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you
might think me incapable of having ever felt.  Hers, for me, was, I
believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and
it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate.  At
seventeen she was lost to me for ever.  She was married--married
against her inclination to my brother.  Her fortune was large, and our
family estate much encumbered.  And this, I fear, is all that can be
said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.
My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her.  I had hoped
that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for
some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she
experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though
she had promised me that nothing--but how blindly I relate!  I have
never told you how this was brought on.  We were within a few hours of
eloping together for Scotland.  The treachery, or the folly, of my
cousin's maid betrayed us.  I was banished to the house of a relation
far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement,
till my father's point was gained.  I had depended on her fortitude too
far, and the blow was a severe one--but had her marriage been happy, so
young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at
least I should not have now to lament it.  This however was not the
case.  My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what
they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly.
The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so
inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural.  She resigned
herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it
been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the
remembrance of me occasioned.  But can we wonder that, with such a
husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or
restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their
marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should
fall?  Had I remained in England, perhaps--but I meant to promote the
happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose
had procured my exchange.  The shock which her marriage had given me,"
he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling
weight--was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years
afterwards, of her divorce.  It was THAT which threw this gloom,--even
now the recollection of what I suffered--"

He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about
the room.  Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his
distress, could not speak.  He saw her concern, and coming to her, took
her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect.  A few
minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.

"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned
to England.  My first care, when I DID arrive, was of course to seek
for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy.  I could
not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to
fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of
sin.  Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor
sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my
brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months
before to another person.  He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,
that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to
dispose of it for some immediate relief.  At last, however, and after I
had been six months in England, I DID find her.  Regard for a former
servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to
visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and
there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate
sister.  So altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering of every
kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before
me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom
I had once doted.  What I endured in so beholding her--but I have no
right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--I have
pained you too much already.  That she was, to all appearance, in the
last stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was my
greatest comfort.  Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time
for a better preparation for death; and that was given.  I saw her
placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited
her every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her
last moments."

Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in
an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.

"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance
I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation.  Their
fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet
disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier
marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other
be.  But to what does all this lead?  I seem to have been distressing
you for nothing.  Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as this--untouched
for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at all!  I WILL be
more collected--more concise.  She left to my care her only child, a
little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then
about three years old.  She loved the child, and had always kept it
with her.  It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I
have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her
education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I
had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at
school.  I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my
brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the
possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford.  I
called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in
general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her.  It is now
three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I
removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very
respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four
or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I
had every reason to be pleased with her situation.  But last February,
almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared.  I had allowed
her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire,
to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her
father there for his health.  I knew him to be a very good sort of man,
and I thought well of his daughter--better than she deserved, for, with
a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would
give no clue, though she certainly knew all.  He, her father, a
well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe,
give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house,
while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance
they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was
convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the
business.  In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all
the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture.  What I
thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too."

"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be--could Willoughby!"--

"The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a
letter from herself, last October.  It was forwarded to me from
Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party
to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,
which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,
and which I believe gave offence to some.  Little did Mr. Willoughby
imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in
breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom
he had made poor and miserable; but HAD he known it, what would it have
availed?  Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of
your sister?  No, he had already done that, which no man who CAN feel
for another would do.  He had left the girl whose youth and innocence
he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no
creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address!  He had
left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor
relieved her."

"This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor.

"His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than
both.  Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what
I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on
being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt
for all your sakes.  When I came to you last week and found you alone,
I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when
it WAS known.  My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but
now you will comprehend it.  To suffer you all to be so deceived; to
see your sister--but what could I do?  I had no hope of interfering
with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet
reclaim him.  But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what
were his designs on her.  Whatever they may have been, however, she may
now, and hereafter doubtless WILL turn with gratitude towards her own
condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she
considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and
pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as
strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which
must attend her through life.  Surely this comparison must have its use
with her.  She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing.  They
proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace.  On the
contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them.
Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it,
must strengthen every attachment.  Use your own discretion, however, in
communicating to her what I have told you.  You must know best what
will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed
it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have
suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family
afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to
raise myself at the expense of others."

Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;
attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to
Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.

"I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him
than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most
perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do.  Now, though at first
she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier.  Have
you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby
since you left him at Barton?"

"Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have.  One meeting was unavoidable."

Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,

"What? have you met him to--"

"I could meet him no other way.  Eliza had confessed to me, though most
reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which
was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to
defend, I to punish his conduct.  We returned unwounded, and the
meeting, therefore, never got abroad."

Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a
soldier she presumed not to censure it.

"Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy
resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly
have I discharged my trust!"

"Is she still in town?"

"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near
her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there
she remains."

Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor
from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again
the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion
and esteem for him.



gradesaver
Marianne still cannot see Willoughby for the blackguard that he is; she wants to believe him innocent, though wavers in her convictions. A letter from their mother arrives, and Marianne expresses her desire to be home immediately, though Elinor decides that they will wait for further advice from their mother. Colonel Brandon calls, and Marianne avoids his presence; he has come to speak to Elinor, and tells her of Willoughby's true character. Colonel Brandon was once in love with a ward to his family, Eliza, who was forced to marry his brother while he was sent into the army; the marriage was not happy, and after their divorce, she became a fallen woman and had an illegitimate daughter. Colonel Brandon finally found her when he came back from India, but she was dying in a poorhouse, with her young daughter. Colonel Brandon placed the daughter, Miss Williams, in care after her mother's death, but she had disappeared some months ago after becoming pregnant by Willoughby and then being abandoned by him. Colonel Brandon received news of Miss Williams's state on the day of the Delaford picnic, and this was the reason he left Barton so suddenly and could not return. The Colonel hopes that knowledge of Willoughby's blackness will help console Marianne about her loss, as she is lucky not to have been married to such a thoughtless, cruel man.
Here, Colonel Brandon's much hinted-about past is finally discussed, and explains much about his character and his present affections for Marianne. Marianne's great resemblance to his long-lost love is surely the reason why the Colonel has such affection for Marianne, and a wish to protect her as he failed to do with Eliza. A theme of recurring history is evident in the Colonel's story, as he is again in love with a passionate, imperiled woman at risk of losing herself and her reputation. But the Colonel's present knowledge and awareness that Eliza's and Marianne's "fortunes cannot be the same" foreshadows that the outcome of his concern for Marianne will be much less tragic. The story of Colonel Brandon's adopted daughter shows that although Marianne was flighty and indiscreet, she is lucky that she was not taken in as the other girl had been. Again, Willoughby's character is shown to be far more reprehensible than it ever appeared; the divide between Willoughby and Colonel Brandon becomes even greater, as the Colonel shows himself to be the kind of honorable, caring man that Willoughby only appeared to be
shmoop
Marianne awakes the next morning just as miserable as the day before. She and Elinor discuss the situation over and over again - she keeps going back and forth on the issue of how much blame to place on Willoughby. One thing Marianne doesn't waver on is her desire to not see Mrs. Jennings, who she finds profoundly unhelpful. Even Mrs. Jennings's good-natured idea that a letter from home will make Marianne feel better convinces the afflicted girl of her hostess's lack of sensitivity - after all, the only thing that could make Marianne feel better is the appearance of a contrite Willoughby. To make matters worse, the letter from Mrs. Dashwood is full of questions and hints about Willoughby, since she doesn't know what has happened yet. Marianne is more resolved to go home than ever, but Elinor convinces her to wait and see what their mother says about the situation. Mrs. Jennings goes out on her social calls earlier than usual that day; she can't wait to tell people the news about Marianne and Willoughby. While she's gone, Colonel Brandon shows up again. Marianne, not wanting to see him, leaves the room. Elinor meets with the Colonel alone - he has something to tell them about Willoughby that might make Marianne feel somewhat better, or at least make her feel lucky that she didn't actually get stuck marrying him. Finally, we get the story of Colonel's mysterious past, and his mysterious departure from Barton last fall. He takes us all the way back to a comment that he made to Elinor way early on in their acquaintance - about how Marianne reminds him of someone he once knew. The lady Marianne reminds him of is his orphaned cousin, Eliza, who he'd loved ever since they were both kids. We get their whole tragic love history: At seventeen, despite her love for Colonel Brandon, Eliza is married off to the Colonel's brother. The reason is this - Eliza has inherited a lot of money, and the Brandons are kind of in the lurch financially, so the Colonel's father strong-arms her into the marriage. Colonel Brandon and Eliza continue to love each other, despite the fact that she is married to his undeserving brother. They plan to elope, but they are thwarted by a treacherous maid - Eliza is punished by her father-in-law and husband, while Colonel Brandon is sent away, first to a distant relative's house, then to the East Indies with the army. Two years later, he hears that Eliza is divorced. At this point in telling his story, the Colonel has to pause - he's too distressed to continue. Elinor is concerned for her friend; he assures her that he's OK and continues. Three years later, Colonel Brandon finally returns home to England. The first thing he does is seek out Eliza - it's a difficult search. Apparently, she'd been seduced by a series of bad men, and fallen into a disreputable life. From what he gathers from his brother, Eliza doesn't even have enough money left to keep her in good health. Coincidence leads Colonel Brandon to a "spunging house," a kind of debtor's prison, where he finds Eliza, about to die of consumption . Colonel Brandon pays for Eliza to be moved to a better place to live, and tries to make her happy for the rest of her brief life. The Colonel pauses here in his story to assure Elinor that he doesn't think the same thing will happen to Marianne - their resemblance will surely not lead to similar fates. Back to his story: When Eliza dies, she leaves Colonel Brandon in charge of her only child, a little girl who was born out of wedlock after her first affair. The child is only about three years old. It turns out that this is the girl that Mrs. Jennings thought was Colonel Brandon's love child - in fact, she's his ward . Colonel Brandon provides the little girl with schooling and then with a caretaker in Dorset, where she lives with a bunch of other girls about her own age . Last February, though, Eliza disappeared. The Colonel had given her permission to go to Bath with a friend and the friend's family - and from there, she ran off somewhere. Nobody could or would say where - and she was gone for eight mysterious months. Elinor realizes that this, unfortunately, is probably where Willoughby comes in. Colonel Brandon goes on. Last October, when he had to flee from Barton, he'd received news of Eliza - actually, a letter from the girl herself. He confirms the fact that Eliza's disappearance was Willoughby's fault - he'd seduced her, left her, promised to return, but then never did. Basically, he got her pregnant and fled the scene. Elinor is shocked and dismayed. Colonel Brandon explains that this is why he's been so worried about Marianne's relationship with Willoughby - he didn't want to interfere, and he'd thought that maybe Marianne could reform him. However, it's clear that she couldn't. Colonel Brandon hopes that Marianne can at least feel grateful that she's not in the same situation as poor the poor young Eliza. Elinor asks if Colonel Brandon has seen Willoughby since this all went down. Apparently, he challenged the younger man to a duel, but both of them emerged unscathed. Elinor then inquires about Eliza's state - and learns that the girl, who just had her baby, has been moved to the country. His tale told, Colonel Brandon departs.
cliffnotes
Mrs. Jennings continued her good services, all of which were unappreciated by Marianne, who felt that the woman was using her as a source of gossip. When she came to Marianne's room, glowing, with a letter which she believed would cheer the girl, Marianne assumed the correspondence was from Willoughby, and her distress was heightened when she realized it was but from her mother. What was worse, her mother spoke continually of Willoughby with the greatest confidence in his good intentions. Marianne longed to go home, but Elinor persuaded her to wait for their mother's advice. Elinor started a letter to her mother but was interrupted by the arrival of Colonel Brandon, who was very desirous of finding Elinor alone. Warning her that she would find him "a very awkward narrator," he began to tell her about Eliza, a girl who "in some measure" resembled Marianne. Eliza, an orphan and wealthy, was under the guardianship of Colonel Brandon's father, who was a close relative and grew up with him in his home. They planned to elope, but a housemaid betrayed them, and, at seventeen, against her inclination, Eliza was married to Colonel Brandon's older brother. This was done so that her large income could save the Brandon estate, which had gone to his older brother. He treated her badly, and after two years they were divorced. Eliza was then seduced by one man after another. After serving in the East Indies for three years, Colonel Brandon came home and began to search for her. He at last found her a consumptive, "so altered -- so faded -- worn down by acute suffering of every kind!" He did all he could for her and "was with her in her last moments." Eliza left her only child, three-year-old Eliza, in his charge. He put her in a good school, visited her whenever he could, and often had her to stay at Delaford. Twelve months ago, she had asked permission to go to Bath with a friend. There she had disappeared, and it was eight months before Colonel Brandon found what had happened to her. He received a letter -- the same letter which had caused him to leave Barton Park so abruptly on the day of the planned excursion to Whitwell. She had been seduced by Mr. Willoughby, who "had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her." At present she lived in the country with the child who was the product of that event. Colonel Brandon had challenged Willoughby to a duel, but neither had been wounded, "and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." He told Elinor to tell Marianne whatever she saw fit. "You must know best what will be its effect."
In this chapter, Jane Austen makes use of one of the conventions seen commonly in the novels of that period -- the inset story. The story of the young woman ruined by a ruthless young man was always popular. The seduction usually happened at a seaside resort, as here, in Bath. As we learn more and more about Willoughby, he appears to be a totally different person from the man who courted Marianne at Barton Park. Both men, the good and the evil Willoughby, are not convincing, for they are both extreme.
pinkmonkey
On waking up the next morning, Elinor finds Marianne sobbing and writing a letter to Willoughby. Since Marianne refuses to reveal anything to her sister, Elinor leaves her alone. After breakfast, Marianne receives a letter from Willoughby. The letter creates even more pain for Marianne than did his behavior at the party. Willoughby denies ever having loved Marianne and returns all the letters she had written him in the past, as well as the lock of hair he had taken from her. Elinor reads the letter and condemns Willoughby for his heartlessness. She also reads the three letters Marianne had written earlier, in which she professed her love for Willoughby and expressed her eagerness to meet him. Marianne feels that others might have poisoned Willoughby's mind against her. However, she is not able to excuse his hypocrisy and indifference. Weighed down by sorrow, she expresses a desire to go back to Barton to meet her mother. Elinor asks her to wait for some more time.
Notes Jane Austen convincingly portrays a woman passionately in love, one who has been thwarted by her lover. Marianne is shattered by Willoughby's attitude. Unable to suppress her feelings, she writes one more letter to him, asking him to justify his behavior during the previous evening. Willoughby's reply wounds her tortured heart all the more. He neither expresses regret nor apologizes for his behavior at the party. His words express only cruelty. Marianne's last hope fails. She breaks down in front of her sister and asks her to take her home. She wants to go away from the city, which has given her nothing but anxiety and pain. Elinor, who generally excuses people for their lapses, finds Willoughby's behavior atrocious. He has used her sister shamelessly and discarded her at his convenience. She condemns him for his villainy. Again, her response is entirely justified. CHAPTER 30 Summary The news spreads like wild fire. Mrs. Jennings, returning back from her visit, gives them the news about Willoughby's engagement to Miss Grey. She takes pity on Marianne and tries to soothe her wounded heart. In the evening, during dinner, she gives more information about Miss Grey. Willoughby's fiancee is a fashionable and wealthy woman, inheriting fifty thousand pounds; but she is common in her looks. The news distresses Marianne all the more. Shortly afterwards, Colonel Brandon enters the scene. He has also heard about Willoughby and his engagement. He shows his concern for Marianne and inquires about her reaction. Notes Mrs. Jennings is one of the most likeable characters in this novel. She loves teasing young people in love, but at the same time, is sympathetic to those who have been wronged by love. Her generous heart goes out to Marianne. She curses Willoughby and consoles Marianne. However, her concern for Marianne is an added irritant: by fussing over the girl, Mrs. Jennings only increases her agitation. But the old lady is quite unaware of this. The chapter relates how news spreads like wild fire, thanks to the women busy in gossiping. Just a short while after Marianne and Elinor learn of Willoughby's engagement, Mrs. Jennings comes home with the news: "Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I would not have believed it." The old lady also provides all the details about Miss Grey. In the evening Colonel Brandon comes to share the news he has heard in a stationer's shop in Pall Mall. He reveals, "Two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all." This also hints that the Colonel is a gentleman who does not pursue gossip. CHAPTER 31 Summary Elinor tries her best to lift Marianne from her depression by talking to her. Shortly afterwards, they receive a letter from their mother. Mrs. Dashwood, unaware of the recent developments, asks Marianne to explain her relationship with Willoughby. Her letter, full of wishes and hope, moves Marianne, who wants to go see her mother all the more. Colonel Brandon calls on them again. He recounts his past to Elinor. He also talks about Eliza Brandon and her daughter, Miss Williams. He relates how Willoughby had once played with the girl's heart, and after managing to seduce her, had left her in the lurch. Notes Marianne is still in love with Willoughby and nurtures a hope that he may repent and come back to her. Thus, when Mrs. Jennings brings a letter for them, Marianne imagines it to be a letter of repentance from Willoughby. Marianne is emotional and prejudiced. She does not take kindly to Mrs. Jennings' genuine sympathy or generosity. In her opinion, all that the old lady wants is "gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it." She also considers Colonel Brandon as an intruder who enjoys interfering in others' affairs. She remarks: "A man who has nothing to do with his own time, has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others." Marianne lacks a mature understanding of human nature. Immersed in her own sorrow, she fails to notice the genuine concern that others may have. Colonel Brandon clears the suspicions regarding his reputation by revealing his past to Elinor. Miss Williams is not his natural daughter, as most people imagine, but Eliza Brandon's. He had once loved Eliza Brandon, but she was forced to marry his brother. The marriage was unhappy, and Eliza had several extra- marital affairs. Colonel Brandon ultimately became the guardian of Eliza Williams, the daughter that resulted from the first of these affairs. His love for Marianne makes him confide in Elinor. He also exposes the deceptive nature and base character of Willoughby. Willoughby behaved in a disreputable manner with Miss Williams but has refused to acknowledge his mistake. He deserves to be punished, but the Colonel has been generous enough to pardon him.