Sense and Sensibility
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