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Chapter 46
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.
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 painful recollection,
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 piano-forte.
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 practice 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 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
virtuous self-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
fulfill her parting injunction.
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