CHAPTER XLIII.
Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry
replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her
accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire
with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary
and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and
when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, Colonel
Brandon was only astonished at her sister’s composure, who, though
attending and nursing her the whole day, against Marianne’s inclination,
and forcing proper medicines on her at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the
certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm.
A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation
of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed herself
unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very ready
to adopt Mrs. Jennings’s advice, of sending for the Palmers’ apothecary.
He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood
to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by
pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word
“infection” to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer, on her baby’s
account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the first to think
Marianne’s complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked very grave on
Mr. Harris’s report, and confirming Charlotte’s fears and caution, urged the
necessity of her immediate removal with her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though
treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of
his wife too great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on;
and within an hour after Mr. Harris’s arrival, she set off, with her little boy
and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer’s, who lived a
few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at her
earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was almost
equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however,
with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her, declared her
resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill,
and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of
the mother she had taken her from; and Elinor found her on every occasion
a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and
often by her better experience in nursing, of material use.
Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and
feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow would
find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have produced,
but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day they
were to have begun their journey home; and, attended the whole way by a
servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the
following forenoon. The little she said was all in lamentation of this
inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her
believe, as she then really believed herself, that it would be a very short
one.
The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient;
she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no amendment, did
not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced; for Mr. Palmer,
though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity and good-nature, as
from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was
persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his promise of following
her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel Brandon himself, with a
much greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise.—Here, however, the
kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most acceptably; for to send the
Colonel away while his love was in so much uneasiness on her sister’s
account, would be to deprive them both, she thought, of every comfort; and
therefore telling him at once that his stay at Cleveland was necessary to
herself, that she should want him to play at piquet of an evening, while
Miss Dashwood was above with her sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to
remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a
compliance, could not long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs.
Jennings’s entreaty was warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to
feel a relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist
or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence.
Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.
She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of
Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It gave
her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it gave her
likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.
Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer’s departure, and her
situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who attended
her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Dashwood
was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means so
cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in the seizure that
Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly
of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings’s forebodings, was not in a state of mind
to resist their influence. He tried to reason himself out of fears, which the
different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many
hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too
favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not
expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.
On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of
both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared his
patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom
more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed in every
pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her
mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her friend’s, in
making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland;
and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able to travel.
But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the
evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and
uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing
to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to
have her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw
her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected
the most beneficial effects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished
to see it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it
herself, she resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings,
knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed;
her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the
housekeeper’s room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.
The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her sister,
who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of posture,
and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed
her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when
Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house,
started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,—
“Is mama coming?”
“Not yet,” cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting Marianne
to lie down again, “but she will be here, I hope, before it is long. It is a great
way, you know, from hence to Barton.”
“But she must not go round by London,” cried Marianne, in the same
hurried manner. “I shall never see her, if she goes by London.”
Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while
attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker
than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased
so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and
despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To consult with Colonel
Brandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought which
immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon she
had rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to
the drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much
later hour than the present.
It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were
immediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to
attempt the removal of:—he listened to them in silent despondence;—but
her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to
speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered
himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no
resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though
fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message
to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to
her mother.
The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon—or
such a companion for her mother,—how gratefully was it felt!—a
companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve,
and whose friendship might soothe her!—as far as the shock of such a
summons could be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his
assistance, would lessen it.
He, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a
collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost
despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might look
for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses
arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon only
pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low
to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was then about twelve o’clock,
and she returned to her sister’s apartment to wait for the arrival of the
apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the night. It was a night of
almost equal suffering to both. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless
pain and delirium on Marianne’s side, and in the most cruel anxiety on
Elinor’s, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid
by their excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with
her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her
more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.
Marianne’s ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her mother,
and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor
Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of
illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might
soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long, and pictured to
herself her suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to
see her rational.
She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if he could not
come, for some other advice, when the former—but not till after five
o’clock—arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for his
delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant
alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and
talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a
confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to Elinor. He
promised to call again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the
patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had found them.
With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to
their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. Her
former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of
the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her conviction of
her sister’s danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. Her
heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young,
so lovely as Marianne, must have struck a less interested person with
concern. On Mrs. Jennings’s compassion she had other claims. She had
been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and she was
known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her
sister too, particularly a favourite, was before her;—and as for their mother,
when Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to her
what Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in her sufferings was very
sincere.
Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;—but he came to be
disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines
had failed;—the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet—not
more herself—remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more
than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. But he
judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh
application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit
concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could
not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she
thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she
continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister’s bed, her thoughts
wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her
spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who
scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many
weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne’s disappointment had
brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh
misery to her reflections.
About noon, however, she began—but with a caution—a dread of
disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend—to
fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister’s pulse;
—she waited, watched, and examined it again and again;—and at last, with
an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than all her
foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings,
though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to
keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance;—and
Elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to
hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all its
anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch—she hardly knew for
what. Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed
her. Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all
flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes on
her with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed
her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of
Mr. Harris at four o’clock;—when his assurances, his felicitations on a
recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence,
comfort, and tears of joy.
Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her
entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial
justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm,
allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy,
and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire
recovery.
Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led to
any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health, friends,
and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of
exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude;—but it led to no
outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within Elinor’s
breast was satisfaction, silent and strong.
She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the whole
afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled
spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every
breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course, in some moments,
occur to remind her of what anxiety was—but when she saw, on her
frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery
continued, and saw Marianne at six o’clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to
all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.
The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected
back. At ten o’clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her mother
would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be
travelling towards them. The Colonel, too!—perhaps scarcely less an object
of pity!—Oh!—how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in
ignorance!
At seven o’clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined Mrs.
Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been kept by her
fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much;—and the
present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought
to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings would have persuaded her, at
its conclusion, to take some rest before her mother’s arrival, and allow her
to take her place by Marianne; but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no
capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept
away from her sister an unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore
attending her up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all
continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and
retired to her own room to write letters and sleep.
The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the
rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within, regarded it
not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers—they had a rich
reward in store, for every present inconvenience.
The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been
convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house;
and so strong was the persuasion that she did, in spite of the almost
impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining
dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the truth.
She instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a
carriage were immediately in view. By their uncertain light she thought she
could discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess
of her poor mother’s alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected
rapidity.
Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at that
moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage
stopt at the door—of her doubt—her dread—perhaps her despair!—and of
what she had to tell!—with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm.
All that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore staying only
till she could leave Mrs. Jennings’s maid with her sister, she hurried down
stairs.
The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured
her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the drawing-room,—
she entered it,—and saw only Willoughby.
