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1"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced
2relation. Their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition of the one been guarded
3by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other be. But to what
4does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as
5this--untouched for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at all! I will be more collected--more concise. She
6left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about three
7years old. She loved the child, and had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly
8would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our
9situations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at school. I saw her there
10whenever I could, and after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the
11possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford. I called her a distant relation; but I am well aware
12that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now three years ago (she had just
13reached her fourteenth year,) that I removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very respectable woman,
14residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two
15years I had every reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly
16disappeared. I had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one
17of 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
18thought well of his daughter--better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would
19tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted
20man, could really, I believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were
21ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was
22convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but
23that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be
24imagined; and what I suffered too." "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be--could Willoughby!"-- "The first news
25that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from
26Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving
27Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which I believe gave
28offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up
29the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but had he known it, what
30would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he had already done
31that, which no man who can feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in
32a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He had left
33her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her." "This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed
34Elinor. "His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have now
35known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that
36she 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,
37I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it was known. My behaviour must have seemed
38strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister--but what
39could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet reclaim
40him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been,
41however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless will turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it
42with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her
43to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach,
44which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings
45to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made
46still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen
47every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best
48what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her
49regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital
50which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." Elinor's thanks followed this speech
51with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the
52communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the
53rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first
54she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen
55Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable."
56Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to--" "I could meet him no
57other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town,
58which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned
59unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man
60and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy
61resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she still in
62town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child
63into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her
64sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of
65compassion and esteem for him. CHAPTER XXXII.
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