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 presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly1 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 own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth2 her thanks to him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.
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 conjecture3, 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 melancholy4 eye and varying complexion5 as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence6 of many past scenes of misery7 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 posture8 of reclining weakness; and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar9 obligation.
Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful10 of what passed than her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude11 already dawned. 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 abode12 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 joint13 invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable14 for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem15 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 lengthened16 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 engross17 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 solitary18 way to Delaford. The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey on both without essential fatigue19. Every thing that the most zealous20 affection, the most solicitous21 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 anguish22 of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude23 to conceal24, 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 awakened25 to reasonable exertion26; for no sooner had they entered their common sittingroom, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute27 firmness, as if determined28 at once to accustom29 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, procured30 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 abatement31 in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest she looked and spoke32 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 mutual33 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 plantations34 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 mere35 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 twelvemonth 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 virtuous36 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 prospect38 of busy tranquillity39. 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 invalid40 like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial41 morning appeared, such as might tempt42 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 behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said,"There, exactly there," pointing with one hand, "on that projecting mound43, 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 acting44 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 stopped. Elinor joyfully45 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 of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What, in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully46 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 fickle47, very, very fickle." Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility48 of beginning her story directly, or postponing49 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 Mari
anne 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 judgment50 must censure51. 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 perfectly52 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 entirely53 brought on by myself by such negligence54 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 abhorrence55 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 insolent56 an
d 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 compassion57 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 lessen58 your restraints, by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance59 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 deserted60 and wronged me, and leaving you, for or I professed61 an unbounded affection, to be miserable62 for my sake." Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor, impatient to soothe63, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition64 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 solely65 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 incitement66 to move; and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to show that my spirit is humbled67, my heart amended68, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser69 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, every thing would become easy." Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety70 or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration71, 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 recital72, 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 repentance73, and softened74 only his protestations of present regard. Marianne said not a word. She trembled: her eyes were fixed75 on the ground; and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A thousand enquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable76 with panting eagerness: her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks.
Elinor, dreading77 her being tired, led her towards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing78 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 mamma," withdrew from her sister, and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude79 so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously prearranging its results, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill37 her parting injunction.
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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eligibility
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| n.合格，资格 | |
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postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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incitement
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| 激励； 刺激； 煽动； 激励物 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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74
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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75
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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76
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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77
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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78
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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79
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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