Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

DELAFORD

‘ W hat is it, dearest? Is it news from Whitwell?'

Elinor had been sitting at breakfast with Marianne, something she often did. Although the sisters lived but a short distance from the other, they had so much been in the habit of spending all their time together that married life had not found them any the less inclined to be in each other's company when they were able. Elinor often went up to the Great House in the morning, and now she sat in the breakfast room with Marianne, who had just been delivered a note.

Marianne folded the note up, but the look upon her countenance was so dreadfully white that Elinor was at once alarmed that she was ill or about to faint. She rose to call for some hartshorn, but Marianne would not hear of it, and assured her sister that all was well.

Marianne tried for cheerfulness, although her tone was more of agitation than of cheer. ‘It is nothing so very bad, Elinor. Brandon writes that he will remain at Whitwell for the present. There has been some delay or other. He would not say what it was—it must be something pressing for him to delay his return to us so easily—' Here she broke off, in obvious distress and there was an unusual bitterness to her tone. ‘His wife and children, I collect, are not as much a duty to him as Whitwell appears to be.'

‘It is only a short time more, dearest. I am sure he must have a very good reason to delay his coming home. He will be home soon enough,' reminded Elinor gently. She paused, anxious for Marianne who had not yet recovered her colour. ‘I know his absence must be a trial to you—do you miss him so very much?

‘No—that is, yes—oh, Elinor, I hardly know! I know not if I wish him here—or at the ends of the earth!'

‘Marianne!'

‘I am sorry—I did not mean it of course,' said Marianne hurriedly. ‘It is just that I am so—so tired—and so out spirits that I can hardly think!'

Elinor was all sisterly affection and concern. She rose, came to Marianne and put her arms around her sister. ‘You are overtired, dearest. You have not eaten or slept at all well for the last few months. We are all very anxious for you. Perhaps I can have Mr Abernathy come to you? Perhaps one of his draughts is all that is needed. You look quite pale these days—are you sure you are not unwell?'

‘No, indeed, I am only tired, Elinor,' replied Marianne, gathering herself. ‘I have just been so—so—low in spirits, since baby Philip has come, and since William's arrival, and yet I hardly know why! It is so strange, Elinor, that I, who am never out of sorts, always cheerful, should be suffering under so much of an excess of sensibility!'

Here her sister smiled a little, but contented herself with murmuring, ‘Can you not?' Marianne, of the three sisters, had always been the most prone to her feelings, the most unlikely to curb them—it was passion for life which while endearing to Elinor, had often caused her some misgivings. For although her sister had learned to govern her feelings more fully, Marianne was still susceptible to those emotions which, if not governed, would cause greater distress than was warranted sometimes. ‘What can be done Marianne? Tell me what I can do for you and it shall be done at once!'

‘I cannot make out what has come over me, and you are quite right, Elinor, I have no appetite for anything, and I cannot sleep a wink at all! I wonder at it, for I have been so busy during the day, and the girls are so very demanding! I have taken to my room more, and given them to Nanny more than I own must be good for them.'

Elinor, at hearing this candid confession from her sister, was grave. ‘Then I believe I will ask Mr Abernathy to call today and look at you. Dearest, I should not like to bother the Colonel, but if you feel yourself so unwell, perhaps I ought to write to Whitwell this hour?—'

Marianne would not hear of it. ‘There is no necessity for it, Elinor—I am sure I will be perfectly fine, presently.'

‘Then let me call Abernathy to you, at the very least, to allay my own anxieties, if nothing else. He will give you a draught, perhaps.'

Marianne sighed. ‘I will consent to have Mr Abernathy. But I would give all my mite to have so easy a conclusion to my troubles. If only draughts could remove this burden from my shoulders, I would be content speedily, indeed!'

‘What is it that troubles you, Marianne? Will you confide in me, dearest?'

Marianne would give no reply to this but bent her head.

Elinor tried again. ‘Is there some—some falling out—between you and the Colonel? You know how highly we all think of our dear Philip—if he has hurt you in any way, I am sure it has been unconsciously done!'

‘He has not injured me, Elinor—that is, he has not intended to—' but here, Marianne could not remain in possession of her feelings. ‘Oh, Elinor, he has been so cool towards me these last few weeks, since William arrived! It pains me to speak ill of him, for he has been so good to me, to us all! And yet I cannot but think him tormented beyond comprehension by Miss Williams' death, for he has become quite out of spirits since the dreadful affair. He does not stay to play with the girls before their bedtime, nor does he talk to me about anything, except the merest commonplace topics. He does not even see me, sometimes—indeed he hardly notices I am in the same room!'

Elinor was astonished and perplexed. ‘I dare say the Colonel was very much affected by the death of his ward—she was, after all, as much a daughter to him as could be his own. But to neglect you, in this way—can he be sensible of the pain which he has occasioned by his neglect? Do you speak to him of it at all, Marianne? Surely if he knew?—!'

‘Nay, Elinor, I never speak to him of Miss Williams, for he will not speak of her to me ! I will not give him pain by forcing a confidence. I must be patient and wait for him to recover his spirits. But if only he would do it soon, for I feel my own soul withering away under this burden of grief. I wish sometimes, Elinor, that I had died five years ago from the fever which almost took my life then! I know it is wicked of me, I do, but I cannot help myself. I am so, so unhappy!'

With these words, Marianne buried her head in her sister's shoulder, and remained there for some time, while Elinor calmed and soothed with kind words, entreating her sister not to give way to unrestrained grief, but to exert herself to contain her tears.

Marianne brought herself upright with some effort. ‘You are right, Elinor. I must not give way, and yet, my burden is heavy and my road is hard. And I see no end to it.' She sighed and seemed to be lost in thought.

After a time, Elinor spoke carefully. ‘Dearest, I have had a little experience of these things and I believe you may be suffering a melancholy, the kind which is not uncommon in mothers, after they have given birth. I cannot tell for certain, but it is well that Mr Abernathy come to see you, I collect, and perhaps he may be able to give you something or recommend a treatment.'

Marianne raised her head and said heavily, ‘Perhaps you are right, Elinor. In all my life I have never felt so low in spirits as I do now, and yet I have every happiness at my reach—a good husband, three healthy children, no anxiety on account of money—I am the most ungrateful wretch, I confess it. But what can be done, Elinor? No draught, I am persuaded, can bring back the happiness I feel has gone forever from me!'

Elinor was not tardy in sending for Mr Abernathy, and draughts were given, with more promised forthwith, to aid in sleeping.

‘Your sister appears to be suffering from a deep melancholy, Mrs Ferrars, possibly brought on by childbirth,' he told her after examining Marianne. ‘It is caused by the womb, which during childbirth can become displaced, and wanders around the insides, causing a variety of hysterical symptoms in women. It is very common in young mothers, and it appears your sister has succumbed to its devastating effects.' He eyed her through his eyeglass. ‘Hysteria is a serious business, Mrs Ferrars.'

‘What can be done for her?' asked Elinor in some doubt. ‘Can she recover?'

‘She must have bed rest, Mrs Ferrars,' replied he, ‘and you must keep stimulation to a minimum. Children, for example, make a great deal of noise, and any agitation or undue noise often aggravates the hysteria in cases like these. If she does not improve, I think we may have to try stabilizing the womb by the use of instruments. That however, must be for a doctor to decide.'

‘Should I send for our mother?' asked Elinor in some alarm. ‘Is it really so serious? I am sure if her husband were fetched home, and made to understand, that would do her more good than anything.'

‘I should think not, at present. No visitors whatsoever, Mrs Ferrars. That may only excite her more and bring on another fit of hysteria.'

Elinor heard this with a growing anxiety. ‘Will my sister recover, Mr Abernathy?'

‘That depends on her character, Mrs Ferrars. If she is usually of a sensible, quiet disposition, I give a good prognosis—her illness may be of short duration. The womb must be allowed to settle by resting. She must walk about as little as possible.'

‘She has always been prone to a high degree of sensibility, although she has almost always been of a cheerful disposition. But I believe, Sir, that she has inherited my mother's somewhat nervous temperament.'

‘In that case, I cannot auger well for your sister, Mrs Ferrars. Just keep her to her bed, and keep the children away from her; on all accounts, do not distress her with any news, anything calculated to give rise to an excitement of feelings, either good or evil. We can only watch and wait. I shall call again, and see how the patient is doing on Saturday. Until then, Mrs Ferrars.'

He doffed his hat and left Elinor with even more anxiety for Marianne than she had entertained in herself before the visit.

She shared her anxieties for Marianne with their mother, to whom she wrote a short note that afternoon, but begged that she would not worry too much so as to return herself to Delaford, since she had just arrived home, but that if her presence was required Elinor would surely send for her immediately. It was to be hoped, she wrote, that Marianne would recover herself quickly and that all their anxieties for her was unfounded. As for a wandering organ, Elinor suspected that her sister's ill-health was as much due to whatever rift had occurred between her and the Colonel, and the sooner that rift was mended, the sooner Marianne would be herself again!