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, 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 dishonourable 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 endeavours 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.

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