Colonel Brandon's Diary (26 page)

 

 

‘I knew how it would be,’ said Mrs Jennings, as we sat together this evening. ‘Right from the beginning, I knew how it would be. She was ill, poor girl, but would not acknowledge it, and so she made herself worse before she gave in to nature and took to her bed. It is because she has been lowered by a broken heart. Ay, Colonel, I have seen it before, a young girl fading away after her lover proves false. Willoughby! If I had him here, what would I not say to him, behaving in such a way to my poor young friend. I hope he will be sorry when she dies of it.’

I tried to reason myself out of believing that death would follow, particularly as the apothecary did not seem despondent, but when I had retired and I was alone, I could not help giving in to gloomy thoughts and fearing I would see Marianne no more.

 

 

The dawn dispelled my gloom, and I told myself that this was nothing but a common cold; neglected, it is true, but otherwise susceptible to a warm bed and tender care. In a few days, Marianne would be sitting up; in a few days more, she would leave her room; and before the week was out, she would be well again.

The apothecary confirmed my views when he came again this morning, saying that his patient was materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom was more favourable than on the previous visit.

Reassured, I went to church for the Easter service.

When I returned, I found that Marianne was still improving.

Miss Dashwood, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness.

‘I am relieved that I made light of the matter to my mother when I wrote to her to explain our delayed return,’ she said to me, as we sat together whilst Mrs Jennings took her turn in the sick room. ‘I would not have liked to worry her for nothing. As it is, I believe I will be able to write again tomorrow and fix a day for our return.’

But the day did not close as auspiciously as it began. Towards the evening, Marianne became ill again, and when Mrs Jennings relinquished her place to Miss Dashwood, she looked grave.

‘I do not like the look of her. She is growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before,’ she said, as she entered the drawing room.

Miss Dashwood rose.

‘It is probably nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made,’ she said. ‘I will give her the cordials the apothecary supplied, and they will let her sleep.’

She left the room, and Mrs Jennings and I settled down to a hand of piquet.

‘Poor girl, I do not like the look of her,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Mark my word, Colonel, she will get worse before she gets better.’

Her words proved prophetic. As I went upstairs when Mrs Jennings retired for the night, I heard a cry coming from the sick room: ‘Is Mama coming?’

I paused on the stairs, anxious at the feverish sound of her voice.

‘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.’

A bell rang, and a maid hurried past me.

Recalled to myself, I went downstairs again, where I paced the length of the room, wishing there was something I could do to help. Another moment and Miss Dashwood entered.

‘I am anxious, nay, worried, very worried,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘My sister is most unwell. If only my mother were here!’

At last! There was a way in which I could help.

‘I will fetch her. I will go instantly, and bring her to you at once,’ I said.

‘I cannot impose on you . . .’ she began, with a show of reluctance.

‘It is no imposition, I assure you. I am only too glad to be able to help.’

‘Oh, thank you! Thank you,’ she said. ‘I do confess it would relieve my mind greatly if she were here.’

‘I will have a message sent to the apothecary at once, and I will be off as soon as the horses can be readied.’

The horses arrived just before twelve o’clock, and I set out for Barton to collect Mrs Dashwood and bring her to her daughter.

 

 

I arrived at Barton Cottage at about ten o’clock this morning, having stopped for nothing except to change horses, and braced myself for the ordeal to come. I knocked at the door. The maid answered it, and Mrs Dashwood appeared behind her, already dressed in her cloak.

Her hand flew to her chest as she saw me.

‘Marianne . . .’ she said in horror.

‘Is alive, but very ill. Miss Dashwood has asked me to bring you to her.’

‘I am ready. I was about to set out, for I was alarmed by Elinor’s letter, no matter how much the tried to reassure me, and I wanted to be with Marianne. The Careys will be here at any minute to take care of Margaret, for I cannot take her into a house of infection, and as soon as they arrive, we will be on our way. But you are tired. You must have something to eat and drink.’

I shook my head, but she insisted, and as we had to wait for the Careys, I at last gave way. I ate some cold meat and bread, washed down with a glass of wine, and I felt better for it. The Careys arrived just as I was finishing my hasty meal.

‘Don’t you fret,’ said Mrs Carey to Mrs Dashwood. ‘I’ll take care of Miss Margaret. You go to Miss Marianne, my dear.’

‘Bless you,’ said Mrs Dashwood.

I escorted her out to the carriage, and we set off.

‘My poor Marianne, I should never have let her go to London alone,’ she said. ‘I should have gone with her, but I had no idea! I believed in Willoughby. He was well known and well liked in the neighbourhood. I never suspected . . . I thought she would have such fun in London, but instead she found nothing but misery and mortification. And now this! Is she very ill?’

I could not deceive her, but I said that the apothecary was hopeful.

‘And Elinor? What does she think?’

‘That her sister will be more comfortable when you are at Cleveland.’

‘Then pray God we will soon be there. It is terrible, terrible. Oh, my poor Marianne! I should never have encouraged her attachment to Willoughby, but he seemed perfect in every way: young, handsome, well connected, lively; matching her in spirits and enthusiasms; sharing her taste in music, poetry, and everything else they discussed. They seemed made for each other. And yet he deceived her, abandoned her and married another. I should have made enquiries as soon as I saw her preference; I should have ascertained what kind of man he was, instead of relying on the assurances of Sir John which, though kindly meant, were based on nothing more than the fact that Willoughby was a fine sportsman and a good dancer. I should have asked her if they were engaged, instead of feeling I could not speak of it. I thought too much of her privacy and not enough of her health. Oh, what folly!’

‘You cannot blame yourself,’ I told her.

‘But I do, Colonel, I do!’ she said in anguish. ‘And now she is ill . . .‘’

I tried to comfort her.

‘It is no good,’ she said, ‘I can see by your face that she is very ill. Tell me truthfully, do you think she will die?’

‘Oh God, I hope not!’ I cried, unable to contain my feelings any longer.

She regarded me in surprise, and then a look of understanding crossed her face.

‘You care for her as much as I do.’

I could not deny it.

‘I love her,’ I said wretchedly.

She took my hand.

‘I am so pleased,’ she said, with a tearful smile.

Her kindness cut through the last of my restraint.

‘It is hopeless,’ I said. ‘Even if she recovers, it is hopeless. She can never love me.’

‘You are wrong, Colonel. She can, and I believe in time she will. She is an intelligent girl, for all her sensibility, and she cannot help but see, when her hurt has subsided, that Willoughby was nothing but a tawdry tale bound in gilt and leather, whereas you, dear Colonel, have in you the poetry of Shakespeare, though your cover is not so fine. If she lives . . .’ Her voice broke, but then she recovered herself. ‘. . . If she lives, it will be my greatest happiness to do anything within my power to promote the match.’

‘You are too good,’ I said, overcome. ‘But I hope for nothing for myself. If I can but see her well, I will be happy.’

‘Amen,’ said her mother.

We both of us wished the journey over and at last . . . at last . . . we approached Cleveland.

‘Good Mrs Jennings! To stay with Marianne. But Elinor, my Elinor. . . .’

The carriage stopped, and without waiting for anyone to open the door for her, without waiting even for the steps, she sprang out and ran to the door.

I was beside her; I lifted the knocker; it dropped with a hollow sound; and the door was opened by the butler. Miss Dashwood was behind him and received her mother, who was nearly fainting from fear.

‘It is all right, Mama, it is all right! The fever has broken. She is sleeping peacefully.’

Marianne, well! I thanked God.

I stood back so that mother and daughter could comfort each other and then, seeing that Mrs Dashwood was trying to walk into the drawing room, but that she was still weak with shock, I supported her on one side whilst her daughter supported her on the other, and between us we helped her into the room.

She began to cry with joy, and embraced her daughter again and again, turning to press my hand from time to time, with a look which spoke her gratitude and her certainty of my sharing it.

As soon as she had recovered herself, she left the room with her daughter, and the two of them went upstairs to see Marianne, whilst I sank into a chair. All the anxiety of the last few days flowed over me, and I sat still and silent until the weakness had passed, and then I gave thanks, over and over, for her life being spared.

 

 

I woke at three o’clock this morning, sitting in the chair in the drawing room. I was stiff and uncomfortable, but my discomfort was soon banished when I remembered that Marianne was out of danger.

I went into the hall and, passing the maid coming downstairs with a bowl of water, asked if Marianne was still sleeping.

‘Yes, sir, sleeping like a baby,’ said the maid happily.

I returned to my room where, stripping off my clothes, I fell into bed.

I awoke early, feeling much refreshed, and was soon downstairs. The news from the sick room was still good, and I made a hearty breakfast, then went out for a ride. The world was new-dressed in the freshest of greens, the leaves unfurling from the trees, and the pine cones budding on the branches. I rode on, breathing deeply, filling my lungs with the air that was rich with the smell of spring, and as I did so, I found hope stirring in my breast. Hope!

I tried to fight it down, but it would not be denied. Marianne was on the way to recovery. The world, which had been dull and hard and grey, was full of joy and optimism, from the brilliant blue of the sky to the diamonds of dew that caught the sunlight and reflected it in rainbow hues.

I rode until I had rid myself of all my energy and then returned to the house.

I went inside and found Mrs Dashwood sitting down to breakfast. Her cheerful look showed me that her daughter continued to mend.

‘Ah, Colonel, I am so pleased to see you. Is it not splendid news? Marianne has passed a quiet night. Her colour is good and her pulse strong. We will have her well again before long.’

I could not hide my delight.

‘To have a true friend such as you, Colonel, has been a great relief to me, and to Elinor. She has spoken of your steadfast friendship, and she is as grateful for it as I am. And she is just as pleased about your attachment to Marianne.’

‘I should not have spoken to you as I did last night,’ I said, for I had not asked her permission to court Marianne.

‘Come, now, you are made out of flesh and blood, Colonel, and not stone. Could you help speaking in such circumstances? And I am very glad you did. Only give it time, and I am sure you will have your heart’s desire. Marianne’s heart is not to be wasted on such a man as Willoughby. Your own merits will soon secure it.’

‘I allowed myself to hope for it once, but after seeing her so ill, I believe her affection is too deeply rooted for any change, at least not for a great length of time; and even supposing her heart again free, I do not think that, with such a difference of age and disposition, I could ever attach her,’ I said.

‘You are quite mistaken. Your age is an advantage, for you have overcome the vacillations of youth, and your disposition is exactly the very one to make her happy. Your gentleness and your genuine attention to other people is more in keeping with her real disposition than the artificial liveliness, often ill-timed, of Willoughby. I am very sure myself that had Willoughby turned out to be as amiable as he seemed, Marianne would not have been as happy with him as she will be with you.’

I could not help but be cheered by her words, for I knew that it meant I had her permission to court her daughter and win her, if I could.

 

 

Marianne was well enough to move into Mrs Palmer’s dressing room today, and Miss Dashwood said, ‘My sister would like to see you, Colonel.’

‘Me?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Yes,’ she said with a smile.

I followed her to the dressing room, where I was relieved to see that Marianne was sitting up, but horrified to see her so thin and pale. There were dark rings under her eyes, and a lack of animation in her eye.

‘Ah, good Colonel, it pains you to see me like this,’ she said, seeing my expression.

‘It does,’ I confessed, going down on one knee beside her sofa, so that I could be on a level with her.

‘But if not for you, it would be far worse. You brought my mother to me, and for that I can never thank you enough.’