Chapter 46

by Jane Austen

　　Marianne'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 presencein 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 ownparticular request, for she was impatient to pour forthher thanks to him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandonwas invited to visit her.His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her alteredlooks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediatelyheld 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 varyingcomplexion as he looked at her sister, the probablerecurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind,brought back by that resemblance between Marianne and Elizaalready 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 thanher daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced,and therefore watching to very different effect,saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arosefrom the most simple and self-evident sensations, while inthe actions and words of Marianne she persuaded herselfto think that something more than gratitude already dawned.At the end of another day or two, Marianne growingvisibly 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 measuresdepended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings couldnot quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and ColonelBrandon 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'sunited request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailedon 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 hospitablefor other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasureto redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the courseof a few weeks.The day of separation and departure arrived;and Marianne, after taking so particular and lengtheneda leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so fullof respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heartfrom a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and biddingColonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend,was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which heseemed anxious that she should engross at least half.Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed, and the otherswere left by themselves, to talk of the travellers,and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summonedto her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maidfor the loss of her two young companions; and Colonel Brandonimmediately afterwards took his solitary way to Delaford.The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Mariannebore her journey on both, without essential fatigue.Every thing that the most zealous affection, the mostsolicitous care could do to render her comfortable,was the office of each watchful companion, and eachfound their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmnessof spirits. To Elinor, the observation of the latterwas particularly grateful. She, who had seen her weekafter week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguishof heart which she had neither courage to speak of,nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no othercould 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 enteredon scenes of which every field and every tree broughtsome peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silentand 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 shehad been crying, she saw only an emotion too naturalin itself to raise any thing less tender than pity,and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In thewhole of her subsequent manner, she traced the directionof a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no soonerhad they entered their common sitting-room, than Marianneturned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness,as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sightof every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby couldbe connected.--She said little, but every sentence aimedat 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 theirfavourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own namein his hand-writing.--That would not do.--She shook her head,put the music aside, and after running over the keysfor a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers,and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmnessas she did so, that she should in future practice much.The next morning produced no abatement in thesehappy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and bodyalike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke withmore genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure ofMargaret's return, and talking of the dear family partywhich would then be restored, of their mutual pursuitsand cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish."When the weather is settled, and I have recoveredmy strength," said she, "we will take long walks togetherevery 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'snew 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 toldthey once reached. I know we shall be happy. I knowthe summer will pass happily away. I mean never to belater in rising than six, and from that time till dinnerI shall divide every moment between music and reading.I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a courseof 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 Iknow I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only sixhours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-montha great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."Elinor honoured her for a plan which originatedso nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eagerfancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languidindolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducingexcess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuousself-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when sheremembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled,and feared she had that to communicate which might againunsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a timethis fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing thereforeto delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till hersister'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, beforethe weather was fine enough for an invalid like herselfto venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared;such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and themother'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 feeblenessof Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since herillness required;--and they had advanced only so farbeyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill,the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyesturned towards it, Marianne calmly said,"There, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand,"on that projecting mound,--there I fell; and thereI 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 painon the spothesitatingly it was said.--"Or will it be wrong?--I can talkof 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 youof what my feelings have been for him, but what theyare now.--At present, if I could be satisfied on one point,if I could be allowed to think that he was not alwaysacting a part, not always deceiving me;--but above all,if I could be assured that he never was so very wickedas my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the storyof that unfortunate girl"--She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her wordsas she answered,"If you could be assured of that, you think youshould be easy.""Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;--for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who hasbeen what he has been to me, of such designs,--but what mustit make me appear to myself?--What in a situation like mine,but a most shamefully unguarded affection could exposeme to"--"How then," asked her sister, "would you accountfor 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 herselfon 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 Marianneat last with a sigh, "when I wish his secret reflectionsmay be no more unpleasant than my own. He will sufferenough 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 knowyour 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 perfectlyable to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in myown behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintancewith him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudencetowards 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 ledme to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had beenentirely brought on by myself by such negligence of myown health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong.Had I died,--it would have been self-destruction. Idid 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 eagernessof 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 fretfulselfishness of my latter days; who had known all themurmurings of my heart!--How should I have lived in yourremembrance!--My mother too! How could you have consoledher!--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 hardenedagainst their merits, and a temper irritated by theirvery 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 wrongedby me. I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows;yet to what did it influence me?--not to any compassionthat could benefit you or myself.--Your example wasbefore me; but to what avail?--Was I more considerateof you and your comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance,or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in thoseoffices of general complaisance or particular gratitudewhich you had hitherto been left to discharge alone?--No;--not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when Ihad believed you at ease, did I turn away from everyexertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrowto exist but with me, regretting only that heartwhich had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you,for or I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserablefor my sake."Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit;and Elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honestto flatter, gave her instantly that praise and supportwhich 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 adheringto 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 smallestincitement 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 shallever forget him, would be idle. His remembrance can be overcomeby no change of circumstances or opinions. But it shallbe regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason,by constant employment."She paused--and added in a low voice, "If I couldbut know his heart, everything would become easy."Elinor, who had now been for some time reflectingon the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazardingher narration, without feeling at all nearer decision thanat first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflectiondid nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herselfleading to the fact.She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address;prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simplyand honestly the chief points on which Willoughbygrounded his apology; did justice to his repentance,and softened only his protestations of present regard.Marianne said not a word.--She trembled, her eyeswere fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiterthan even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiriessprung 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, andtears 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 bethough no question was suffered to speak it, talked ofnothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together;and was carefully minute in every particular of speechand look, where minuteness could be safely indulged.As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a kissof gratitude and these two words just articulate throughher tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister andwalked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attemptto 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 parlourto fulfill her parting injunction.