Chapter Text
The clock struck eight, and still Marianne slept her sweet sleep of—Elinor hoped and trusted—restoration and revival. Her breathing was deep and even, and its steady rhythm, along with the sounds of the storm outside, had a soothing effect on her sister’s senses. Less than half an hour had passed since Elinor had proclaimed herself incapable of sleep, and yet her thoughts soon started to slip from her grasp as her own breath stilled and deepened, and her eyes fell shut over and over again, despite her intentions of keeping them open—and though she was not conscious of having actually slept, Elinor could not tell how much time had passed when she was roused from her seat at her sister’s side by the sound of a carriage driving up to the house.
At the thought of what her mother and Colonel Brandon might be feeling as they drove up to the door—the doubt, the dread, the despair—, Elinor was instantly as awake as she could ever have wished herself to be, and without even stopping at a window she only ran to fetch Mrs. Jenning’s maid to stay with her sister before hurrying down stairs.
In her haste, Elinor had been deaf to any sounds from below, but as she passed along an inner lobby she heard a bustle—nay, a commotion—in the vestibule, and just as she rushed into the drawing-room an agitated voice cried out, “Tell me, man; does Marianne still live?”
It was the voice of Willoughby.
Elinor started, but before she could turn to quit the room unseen, Willoughby burst through the doors at the other end of it, and they stood face to face. For a drawn-out moment, neither of them moved or spoke; they just stared at each other. Willoughby looked quite wild, with eyes wide, a deep glow overspreading his cheeks, and his hair in disarray. Behind him Elinor could see a servant struggling to regain his balance after, she soon surmised, having been pushed aside so that Willoughby could advance toward the sounds of Elinor’s own arrival.
Then the servant reached out to detain this strange intruder, and the spell was broken. Willoughby wrenched free from the servant’s touch, and in three steps he was close enough to Elinor for her to smell the liquor on his breath. She stepped backwards, half-consciously groping for the lock of the door behind her back. But Willoughby would not let her escape; he reached out and seized her wrists in a vice grip.
“Elinor, Elinor,” Willoughby wailed as he drew her hands towards his face, “tell me she lives!”
“She lives,” Elinor whispered back, in a confusion of fright and pity.
“And will she live?”
Elinor could not speak. She struggled to free herself, but in vain, and she was no more in control of her voice than she was of her hands.
When no answer came, Willoughby shook her by her wrists, repeating his enquiry with, if possible, yet greater eagerness. “For God’s sake tell me, Elinor, will she live? Is she out of danger?”
Elinor swallowed against her rising horror, and forced herself to answer. “We hope she is.”
“God be praised!”
After his exclamation, Willoughby seemed to fall into a reverie. He lowered his hands, still clasping Elinor’s wrists, and as he closed his eyes, drawing ragged, sobbing breaths, his grip slackened. Yet it was not enough for Elinor to break free, and she was gathering her courage to demand that he release her, that he explain himself—when Colonel Brandon stepped into the room, holding a flintlock pistol.
“Let go of Miss Dashwood.” The Colonel’s voice was no less calm than it was cold.
Now it was Willoughby’s turn to startle, and he did release Elinor’s wrists as he swirled around, unsteady on his feet. When he saw the gun in Colonel Brandon’s grip, held at chest level but angled down and away from him and Elinor, he started again, more violently.
“I missed you the once,” said Colonel Brandon gravely. “Give me a reason to shoot, and I will not miss again.”
To Elinor’s astonishment, Willoughby’s first instinct upon perceiving the weapon was to push Elinor herself out of harm’s way, and they each stumbled off in opposite directions. The Colonel’s eyes, and his pistol, followed Willoughby as he let himself fall onto the nearest sofa.
“Oh no,” said Colonel Brandon. “Get back up, and leave this house.”
Against her own inclination, Elinor found herself admiring the defiance in Willoughby’s eyes as he slowly rose from the sofa.
“It would seem that I have no choice but to do as you say,” he spat out. “But before I take my leave I must be allowed to say”—turning to Elinor—“how sorry I am for appearing before you in this manner. I came to explain myself, in the hope of making you hate me one degree less than you did before—but now I fear I have rather increased your abhorrence of me. And yet, I still foolishly persist in wishing to obtain something like forgiveness from your sister. And I still intend to try to obtain it. Please allow me to write to you, Miss Dashwood, just this once. Accept from me one letter of explanation and apology for my abominable conduct, and then neither you nor your sister will ever hear from me again.”
Elinor glanced between the Colonel’s black gaze and Willoughby’s entreating eyes with a beating heart. Once again she could not bring herself to speak, but this time it seemed she did not need to. Willoughby searched her face, and clearly found something in it that made him take her silence as the acquiescence that Elinor feared it indeed was.
“Good-hearted El—Miss Dashwood!” he exclaimed. “You will receive my letter, and you will tell your sister of what it says. I thank you.” His eyes then turned back to Colonel Brandon and his pistol, as he made his way towards the doorway leading back to the vestibule. When he reached it, turned back only to say to Elinor, “Good-bye, and God bless you.”
Then he left the room.
As soon as the door closed behind Willoughby, Colonel Brandon was by Elinor’s side; inspecting her wrists for injury, supporting her weight as she wavered, calling for a servant to bring her a glass of wine. He stayed close as every changing emotion of the last few days overwhelmed her and she burst into tears, pressing her hand as she cried, and handing her his own handkerchief when hers was wet through. For news of Marianne's recovery, he turned to one of the servants, rather than force Elinor to collect herself enough to speak.
Once Elinor’s tears had dried up, Colonel Brandon insisted that she retire to her bed,—and after receiving his assurances that he should once more brave the storm on horseback to intercept her mother’s carriage, so as not to keep Mrs Dashwood from the joyful relief of her daughter’s improvement a moment longer than necessary, Elinor reluctantly did so. And rest came more easily than she would have imagined possible after such a day, and such an evening.