CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Marianne had slept better than she supposed she would. Her sister encouraged her to speak freely about her heartache. One moment, she could believe Willoughby was as unfortunate and innocent as herself, but soon she blamed him for treating her so terribly. Soon enough, Mrs Jennings came to greet them, but Marianne said very little to her.

"Her kindness is false," Marianne said after the old woman left the room. "Her friendliness is not tenderness. All she wants is a good story to tell her friends, and she only likes me now because I give her such stories."

Soon after, Mrs Jennings returned with a letter in her hand, smiling as she came in.

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

Marianne then supposed with joy that the letter was from Willoughby, full of tenderness and regret for having treated her so terribly. But, she was mistaken. The letter was from her mother. Never till that moment, had a letter from her mother caused her disappointment. A moment later, however, she was quite pleased to read the loving message that her mother sent her.

Some time later, Mrs Jennings left the house to visit her daughters. Just after she left, a visitor arrived. Marianne looked out the window.

"It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, annoyed. "We are never safe from him," she said before she left the room.

He came into the room, and greeted Elinor nervously. "I met Mrs Jennings as I was walking down the street, and she encouraged me to come over. I was hoping to find you alone, as I must discuss something with you, Miss Dashwood."

"I understand you," said Elinor. "You have something to tell me of Mr Willoughby that will explain his odd behavior." "You, of course, remember in October when I left Barton suddenly to return to London. Well, I must explain more. Where to begin?" he stopped for a moment before continuing. "I once told you that Marianne reminded me of a young woman I once knew, do you remember?"

"Indeed," answered Elinor. "I have not forgotten." He looked pleased that she remembered.

"This young woman was quite eager and had a tender heart, just like your sister. This lady was one of my dearest friends, an orphan from childhood; her parents had died when she was very young. Therefore, my father cared for her after her parents' deaths. We were nearly the same age, and were dear friends from our earliest years. At seventeen, she was forced to marry my brother, although that was not her wish, as we were in love. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. Her situation was terrible, and we decided we would run away together. Her maid, however, told my father of our plans, and we were not permitted to leave. She was then married to my brother, and he treated her horribly. During this time, I was sent to India to serve in the military. Had I remained in England, perhaps I could have saved her, but I left England so they could attempt to have a happy life together as a married couple. Two years after they were married, however, I heard of her divorce. I suffered greatly after hearing such news." He stopped for a few moments, looking rather upset.

"It was nearly three years after this unhappy time before I returned to England. When I first arrived, I looked for her, but could find her nowhere. I later discovered that she had gone away with a lover. After her divorce, she was given very little money, although she had had a great fortune of her own before she was married. Nearly six months after arriving in England, I found out she was being held in a debtors' prison. I immediately went to rescue her. She was no longer the same beautiful girl I had been in love with. She was now faded and ill, suffering greatly. She was in the last months of her life. I could do nothing more for her, but ease her pain before her death and care for her daughter, which she had with her lover. After Eliza's death, I was to take care of her child, of nearly three years old. Eliza loved that child, and had always kept it with her. I was glad to care for the child, but could not care for her alone, as people might wonder that the child was my own, as I had no family and no home to take her to. 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), I was given the family property, where she frequently came to visit me. I told people she was a distant cousin, but I know many people think her to be my own child. Three years ago (she had just turned fourteen), I removed her from school to place her under the care of a very respectable woman, living near my home, who had four or five other girls to care for, as well. I was quite pleased with her situation, as she was well-taken care of. But last February, almost one year ago, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her, foolishly, to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was visiting her father there. I knew him to be a good man, and thought well of his daughter, but later found that she was not such an honest girl. When Eliza disappeared, her friend gave me no information as to where she had gone. For the next eight long months, I feared the worst things had happened to my dear Eliza, and I greatly suffered."

"Oh no!" 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. I received it on the very morning of our intended picnic; and this was my reason for leaving Barton so suddenly. Mr Willoughby did not know that while he was calling me impolite for leaving the party, I was going to relieve someone whom he had made poor and miserable. But if he had known it, he would not have felt any guilt. He had begun a love affair with my innocent Eliza, after which she was soon with child. He left her, taking her youth and innocence, promising to return. He neither returned, nor wrote, nor helped her in any way."

"This is unbelievable!" exclaimed Elinor.

"You now know his true character, the worst kind. I have known this information for many weeks, and it has pained me to see your sister so upset over such a dishonest young man. When I came to visit you last week, I planned to find out the true situation between your sister and Willoughby. You must have thought my behavior to be quite strange, as I suffered greatly knowing you all to be cheated by Willoughby. But what could I do? I certainly could not explain the situation to your sister. But now, your sister must remember that, although Willoughby cheated her, she should be thankful that she was not cheated as my dear Eliza was. She is now in a hopeless situation, and will now never be able to marry and live well, as your sister still might."

Elinor was grateful to Colonel Brandon for such important information. She promised to immediately explain the situation to Marianne, hoping to relieve some of her pain.

"Have you seen Mr Willoughby since you left Barton?" Elinor asked after a short silence.

"Yes," he replied sadly. "Eliza admitted to me the name of her lover. When he returned to town, nearly two weeks after I came back, I was forced to meet him once to discuss the harm he had caused Eliza. He apologized, and I punished him. So, the lives of mother and daughter are quite similar, and I have failed them both in my promise to care for young Eliza."

"Is she still in London?"

"No, as soon as she had her child, I took them into the country, and there she remains."

He then remembered that he was probably keeping Elinor away from her sister, so he said goodbye and left. Elinor respected him a great deal more for all he had told her.

(end of section)