CHAPTER 46
Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been longenough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, andher mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable herto remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request, forshe was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching hermother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.
His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and inreceiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, wassuch, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more thanhis affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known toothers; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varyingcomplexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of manypast scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblancebetween Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthenedby the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.
Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, butwith a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to verydifferent effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arosefrom the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actionsand words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that somethingmore than gratitude already dawned.
At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly strongerevery twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and herdaughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On HERmeasures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could notquit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soonbrought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there asequally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs.Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on toaccept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the betteraccommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the jointinvitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-naturemade her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself,engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in thecourse of a few weeks.
The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after takingso particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestlygrateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her ownheart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and biddingColonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefullyassisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that sheshould engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed,and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, andfeel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaiseto take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two youngcompanions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took hissolitary way to Delaford.
The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journeyon both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealousaffection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable,was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their rewardin her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, theobservation of the latter was particularly grateful. She, who had seenher week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish ofheart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude toconceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, anapparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trustedof serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment andcheerfulness.
As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which everyfield and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from theirnotice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinorcould neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assistedMarianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only anemotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity,and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of hersubsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened toreasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their commonsitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look ofresolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to thesight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could beconnected.--She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness,and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away withoutthe atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte.She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was anopera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of theirfavourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in hishand-writing.--That would not do.--She shook her head, put the musicaside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained offeebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaringhowever with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practicemuch.
The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On thecontrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she lookedand spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure ofMargaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which wouldthen be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as theonly happiness worth a wish.
When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength, saidshe, we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to thefarm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we willwalk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace itsfoundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shallbe happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never tobe later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shalldivide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan,and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our ownlibrary is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyondmere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at thePark; and there are others of more modern production which I know I canborrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shallgain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction whichI now feel myself to want.
Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading herto the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at workin introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment andvirtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when sheremembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and fearedshe had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind ofMarianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busytranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolvedto wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointedit. But the resolution was made only to be broken.
Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather wasfine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last asoft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter'swishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor'sarm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, inthe lane before the house.
The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in anexercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they hadadvanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of thehill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turnedtowards it, Marianne calmly said,
There, exactly there,--pointing with one hand, on that projectingmound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby.
Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,
I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on thespot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?--hesitatingly itwas said.--Or will it be wrong?--I can talk of it now, I hope, as Iought to do.--
Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
As for regret, said Marianne, I have done with that, as far as HE isconcerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have beenfor him, but what they are NOW.--At present, if I could be satisfied onone point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not ALWAYS actinga part, not ALWAYS deceiving me;--but above all, if I could be assuredthat he never was so VERY wicked as my fears have sometimes fanciedhim, since the story of that unfortunate girl--
She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,
If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy.
Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;--for not only is ithorrible to suspect a person, who has been what HE has been to ME, ofsuch designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--What in asituation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection couldexpose me to--
How then, asked her sister, would you account for his behaviour?
I would suppose him,--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle,very, very fickle.
Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on theeligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it tillMarianne were in stronger health;--and they crept on for a few minutesin silence.
I am not wishing him too much good, said Marianne at last with asigh, when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasantthan my own. He will suffer enough in them.
Do you compare your conduct with his?
No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it withyours.
Our situations have borne little resemblance.
They have borne more than our conduct.--Do not, my dearest Elinor, letyour kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. Myillness has made me think-- It has given me leisure and calmness forserious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, Iwas perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my ownbehaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him lastautumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want ofkindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared mysufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led meto the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on bymyself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at thetime to be wrong. Had I died,--it would have been self-destruction. Idid not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with suchfeelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonderthat the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time foratonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had Idied,--in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, myfriend, my sister!--You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of mylatter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!--How shouldI have lived in YOUR remembrance!--My mother too! How could you haveconsoled her!--I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. WheneverI looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failingindulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The kindness, theunceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungratefulcontempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to everycommon acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a hearthardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their veryattention.--To John, to Fanny,--yes, even to them, little as theydeserve, I had given less than their due. But you,--you above all,above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew yourheart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to anycompassion that could benefit you or myself.--Your example was beforeme; but to what avail?--Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by takingany part in those offices of general complaisance or particulargratitude which you had hitherto been left to dischargealone?--No;--not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I hadbelieved you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty orfriendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regrettingonly THAT heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, forwhom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake.
Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantlythat praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so welldeserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied,
You are very good.--The future must be my proof. I have laid down myplan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall begoverned and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others,nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, mymother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you willshare my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, Ishall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mixin other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, myheart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesserduties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby--tosay that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle.His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances oropinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion,by reason, by constant employment.
She paused--and added in a low voice, If I could but know HIS heart,everything would become easy.
Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety orimpropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at allnearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that asreflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herselfleading to the fact.
She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared heranxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chiefpoints on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to hisrepentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.Marianne said not a word.--She trembled, her eyes were fixed on theground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. Athousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urgeone. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears coveredher cheeks.
Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till theyreached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiositymust be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothingbut Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefullyminute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness couldbe safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with akiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through hertears, Tell mama, withdrew from her sister and walked slowly upstairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonableas what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging itsresult, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Mariannefail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her partinginjunction.