CHAPTER X

arianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not

been long enough to make her recovery slow; and with

youth, natural strength, and her mother's presence in

aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within

four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer's

dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request, for she

was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her

mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks,

and in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to

him, was such, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from

something more than his affection for Marianne, or the

consciousness of its being known to others; and she soon

discovered in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he

looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes

of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance between

Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened

by 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, but with a mind very differently influenced, and

therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the

Colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-

evident sensations, while in the actions and words of Marianne she

persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude

already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly

stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her

own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to

Barton. On her measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs.

Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay;

and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their united request,

to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not

equally indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings's united request

in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his

carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her

sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs.

Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her

friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged

with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of

a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne,

after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings,

one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as

seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of

past inattention, and bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a

cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the

carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at

least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed, and the others

were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own

dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise to take

comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young

companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took

his solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore

her journey on both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the

most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render

her comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and

each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of

spirits. To Elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly

grateful. She, who had seen her week after week so constantly

suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither

courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy,

which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of

mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious

reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and

cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of

which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some

painfulrecollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning

away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the

window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and

when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that

she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself

to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness

entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent manner, she

traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion;

for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than

Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute

firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight

of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could

be connected.―She said little, but every sentence aimed at

cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never

passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she

would try her pianoforté. She went to it; but the music on which

her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby,

containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its

outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing.―That would not

do.―She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running

over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her

fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with

firmness as she did so, that she should in future practise much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy

symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike

strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine

spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret's return, and talking

of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their

mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth

a wish.

"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my

strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day.

We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the

children go on; we will walk 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 its foundations as far as we are

told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the

summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising

than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment

between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am

determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library

is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond

mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at

the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I

know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours

a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of

instruction which I 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 her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish

repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such

rational employment and virtuousself-control. Her smile however

changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to

Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to

communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne,

and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity.

Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her

sister's health were more secure, before she appointed it. But the

resolution was made only to be broken.

Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the

weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out.

But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt

the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne,

leaning on Elinor's arm, was authorised to walk as long as she

could without fatigue, in the lane before the house.

The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne

in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;―and

they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full

view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her

eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said,

"There, exactly there,"―pointing with one hand, "on that

projecting mound,―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 the

spot!―shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?"―hesitatingly it

was said.―"Or will it be wrong?―I can talk of it now, I hope, as I

ought to do."―

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as

he is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings

have been for him, but what they are now.―At present, if I could

be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was

not always acting a part, not always deceiving me;―but above all,

if I could be assured that he never was so very wicked as my fears

have sometimes fancied him, 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

it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what he has been to

me, of such designs,―but what must it make me appear to

myself?―What in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully

unguarded affection could expose 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 the

eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till

Marianne were in stronger health;―and they crept on for a few

minutes in silence.

"I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last

with a sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more

unpleasant than 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

with yours."

"Our situations have borne little resemblance."

"They have borne more than our conduct.―Do not, my dearest

Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must

censure. My illness has made me think―It has given me leisure

and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I was enough

recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the

past; I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our

acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of

imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw

that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my

want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My

illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by

such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to

be wrong. Had I died,―it would have been self-destruction. I did

not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such

feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,―

wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time

for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once.

Had I died,―in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my

nurse, my friend, my sister!―You, who had seen all the fretful

selfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings

of my heart!―How should I have lived in your remembrance!―My

mother too! How could you have consoled her!―I cannot express

my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the

past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every

body seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness

of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the

Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common

acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very

attention.―To John, to Fanny,―yes, even to them, little as they

deserve, 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

your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?―not

to any compassion that could benefit you or myself.―Your

example was before me; but to what avail?―Was I more

considerate of you and your comfort? Did I imitate your

forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those

offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you

had hitherto been left to discharge alone?―No;―not less when I

knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease,

did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely

allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only that heart

which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom 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

instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her

contrition so well deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and

replied,

"You are very good.―The future must be my proof. I have laid

down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it―my feelings

shall be governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer

worry others, nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my

family. You, my mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the

world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you.

From you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallest

incitement to move; and if I do mix in other society, it will be only

to shew that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that I

can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness

and forbearance. As for Willoughby―to say that I shall soon or

that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His remembrance can

be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions. 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 or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration,

without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and

perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all,

soon found herself leading to the fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared

her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the

chief points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did

justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of

present regard. Marianne said not a word.―She trembled, her

eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than

even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from

her heart, but she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable

with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely

pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till

they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her

curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it,

talked of nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together;

and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look,

where minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they

entered the house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two

words just articulate through her tears, "Tell mama," withdrew

from her sister and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not

attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now

sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a

resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne fail to do

it, she turned into the parlour to fulfil her parting injunction.
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