Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

M arianne could no better rest in her darkened room than she could find comfort in being with the children, whose noise gave her a headache, or to play her beloved pianoforte. She had not the fortitude to bear the silence of being alone nor the pain of being with others or to engage herself with those activities which used to bring her peace.

Abernathy had ordered bed rest, and she was not, he commanded her, to move around at all, for fear of dislodging the internal organ which was at present causing her distress. But as she lay in bed in the dully lit room, she knew there was more to her low spirits than a wandering womb. It was true she had not been herself since baby Philip's arrival, but it was that her dear Brandon had withdrawn from her at the time she needed him most, when it was with she herself that he ought to confide his feelings.

She knew that the death of young Beth had shocked him, but surely this was the very time he ought to find some comfort in her presence, rather than to shun her and withdraw from the world. Was it mere grief which had wrought this terrible change in him? Or had she done something that had caused him to disapprove her so badly that he would not trust her with his feelings? Had she erred in some way she was unaware of, to make him so cool toward her?

The idea that she had somehow displeased her husband, that she had lost his good regard, gave her the most pain. If only she could bear his indifference, or make him love her again!

She wondered if she really was suffering from hysteria. Well, if this was hysteria, perhaps she would do better to be in the garden, where she could soothe her agitation by walking about, than to be cloistered in this stuffy, dark bedroom! In fact, she reflected, it would have been better to have gone away to town after all, with Mrs Jennings and her daughter, than to remain here imprisoned by well-meaning friends and not allowed to move or give vent to her feelings!

She rose with some determination, dressed, and presently left the house by the back door, unseen by the servants. Walking out through the gardens, she made for the high-walled orchard, full of fruit trees, and turned sharply to enter the poplar walk, a shady path which had been a favourite walk of hers for five years.

Presently she entered Delaford copse. Here it was sheltered and quiet. Feeling more herself with the exercise which she had always been accustomed to take daily, she now wandered through the trees, every now and again glancing out toward the road which could be seen from her vantage point. Once, she turned sharply, feeling that somehow she was being watched, but there appeared no one to scold her for being outside, and she continued, the brisk air bringing colour to her pale cheeks. After some gentle exertion, fifteen minutes brought her out onto the other side of the wood, and here she turned and made her way across an open field, and to the little path which would lead her back towards the house. But a slight noise behind her made her glance backwards for a moment, and at a short distance, to her horror, stood Willoughby.

If he was as shocked to see her, she could not have said, for she had already turned away, obeying the impulse to flee his presence, if not for her own comfort, then for her husband's sake.

But he had already advanced, starting after her with a low, ‘Mrs Brandon, I beg you will stay just a moment—please, Marianne!' which supplication was more than she could resist.

She turned to face him. ‘Willoughby!' It was more of a whisper than a cry. His horse was at some distance, and to her eye it looked as if he had dismounted purposely to walk upon the path which led to the house. ‘What business have you with me?' she asked in growing amazement. ‘Are you in liquor? Are you mad?'

Willoughby, however, was now silent and as Marianne stared, she realized that the man before her was as white as she herself. ‘What can you mean by coming here?' she cried again, in some horror of being so ill that she might be viewing nothing more than a mirage. ‘You can hardly have business here—with me or with my husband!'

‘Mrs Brandon, I—forgive me. I am come to ask you something. You of all people, will tell me truthfully what I must know.'

A five-years separation rushed back upon her and for a moment she struggled. Why was he here? Did he not see that she was not herself? That she too, bore her own burden? His eyes were staring into hers as if a madman's, and she realized that he saw nothing of her own state, but was fixated in a despair which made her own look tiny. She said quite calmly, ‘I heard of your tragedy. I—I am so very sorry for you and Mrs Willoughby.'

The words seemed to bring him to his senses. ‘Yes,' he replied steadily. ‘I am much obliged to you. Mrs Willoughby and I are—we have been very much affected. '

‘Mr Willoughby, you must go—you know that you cannot remain here. If my husband should hear of your coming…'

‘I had to see you—I know that you , at least, will be honest with me, when all others—' He stopped, seeming unable to carry on.

She knew not what to make of his words. ‘Mr Willoughby, are you in liquor? You must be over-set, and not in your right mind! Grief has overtaken you!'

Willoughby shook his head. ‘You are mistaken,' replied he, almost calmly. ‘I have taken no liquor today although you may be amazed to hear it given my circumstances—no, I have come to ask you a question, Marianne, and I hope that you have forgiven me enough for my past deeds to answer me with, if not kindness, then with truth.'

‘Truth? Kindness?' cried Marianne indignantly. ‘What are these things to you , of all people!'

‘And yet I ask them of you, despite that. You, at least, might tell me the truth. I am afraid I will not be able to bear it if you do not!'

‘What is your question, then? Ask it!'

‘The child who has lately been at Delaford,' said Willoughby with low urgency. ‘The boy you call William Ansell. Is he my son?'

The sound of the distant brook, Marianne thought calmly, was unusually loud in her ears. Or was that rushing sound coming from her own head? She could not tell. She was without senses. How did Willoughby come to know about William?

‘What makes you think such a thing? Who told you such a thing?'

‘I heard talk—some days ago—that is, my man overheard and repeated the gossip to me. When I heard, I knew it was possible, for I heard that his mother recently passed away. Marianne, tell me the truth. Let me hear it from your own lips!'

Marianne was both angry and compassionate. But what should she do? She was obligated to her husband to keep William's identity secret. But she was obliged, too, by some allegiance to happier times, an allegiance to a man whom she had once loved as her own flesh. It was not any man who stood before her. It was Willoughby. And he had already guessed the truth. For the sake of his once meaning something dear to her, she could not deny a grieving father his only surviving child.

‘Yes.' She spoke quite calmly. ‘William Ansell Williams is the child born to Eliza Ansell Williams almost six years ago—whom you most cruelly abandoned. He is your son.' She could not help the cold tone to her voice.

Willoughby visibly relaxed, his countenance losing the dreadful anxiety which had gathered there. ‘William Willoughby,' he said tenderly to himself, then recollected Marianne's presence. ‘His presence cannot atone for my recent loss, and yet, perhaps…may I see him?'

‘You know you cannot—!' began Marianne in some alarm, but Willoughby became agitated at once.

‘Nay, do not say it, do not say it! You have no notion of my pain! It would give me such comfort to have seen him, to have kissed his head, to have spoken with him, just once. You cannot possibly imagine the dreadful horror of losing a child—I hope and I pray that you never have to bear the burden which is mine!'

Her heart almost broke, but still she shook her head. ‘Mr Willoughby, you know that you may not see the boy. There is everything to urge against such a meeting! The trouble it would cause in your marriage, the pain it would give your wife—you know it is impossible. I should not have told you but for the history between us. Be tranquil, if you can, knowing you have a son alive. Speak of this conversation to nobody—to nobody, do you hear me? My husband will not tolerate any inquiry, any attempt to see the boy. William does not know of you, and it is better that way. You must see that. '

Willoughby made as if to grasp her hand but Marianne pulled away. She said very firmly, ‘It is pointless for me to remain here any longer, for such a request can lead to nothing good. You must go now, Mr Willoughby.'

‘Such coolness, and yet I deserve unkindness for I have occasioned it myself,' replied he in despair. ‘Marianne, tell me once, in your own words; have you forgiven me for the grave and heartless cruelty I perpetrated upon you five years ago?'

She hardly hesitated. ‘I forgave you, Willoughby, long ago.'

‘Then you will perhaps think upon my request? Tell me I may see my son just once, and I shall never ask it of you again. My son, my heir, and the only profitable thing to come of a marriage which was rooted in evil—for I married Sophia for money alone, and she me for convenience—and now my son is gone, and I have nothing but my sins to comfort me,' he said bitterly. ‘I confessed as much to your sister five years ago; that to avoid a comparative poverty, I had, by raising myself to affluence alone, deprived myself of a steady and true affection which would have made any poverty bearable. Indeed, I lost everything which could ever make my wealth a blessing! This tragedy is surely a strike by God against me for my sins!'

Marianne blushed to hear these words, and was not unmoved. ‘Say not that you are punished for your sins,' she told him softly, ‘for I believe truly that you have suffered more than the usual man over what is not so uncommon in men. I have thought about it for many years, and although you did me a grave injury, I find that you have not sinned so very much more than any other gentleman who finds his circumstances reduced, and he is obliged to marry for money. Therefore, do not be so cruel to yourself, I beseech you, but be kinder to yourself than you ever were to me, and by those means, redeem yourself, perhaps.'

‘You are too good, Marianne. You were always too good for me. And will you think upon my request? '

‘If knowledge of William's origin was to become public knowledge, you would be doing your living son a great disservice. You must think of him , too. His prospects would be forever blighted by being known as illegitimate. And such a public knowledge would bring severe reproach to you, and ruin your marriage too. Is this how you wish to repay your wife, the mother of your son? To hurt her more than she hurts at present? You acted wickedly with Miss Williams seven years ago, but if you truly repent your actions, Mr Willoughby, you ought not to contemplate such a thing.'

Willoughby was silent for some moments. At last he said, ‘It is as you say. If Sophia was to discover the existence of another child, a son moreover, she would leave me at once, and she would leave me in the straightened circumstances from which I sought escape by marrying her. The marriage contract is quite clear that there was to be no scandal associated with me, or I should not retain any fortune annexed to the union. Her father ensured my life-long allegiance to his family.' His tone was bitter. ‘My aunt has relented, it is true, but not so much as to assure me of anything after she passes from this world. I can never hope for Allenham. With only Combe Magna and its seven hundred pounds, I should have nothing of significance to live upon. You know I have always been expensive.'

Marianne breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Then you know it would be impossible to see the boy, for there would be no way to do it without risking your marriage. Besides which my husband would never allow it. You must go, Mr Willoughby, for you put me at risk too, by your remaining here.'

‘And yet, I am almost ready to give up even the income I enjoy at Sophia's hand, if only I could see my son!'

‘Mr Willoughby, you must think of me ! You must not be seen here anymore! And you can do nothing good for William but make his circumstances obvious to the world, if you take notice of him. He has the opportunity to be brought up a gentleman's son—would you ruin his chances at happiness by a selfish whim of your own?'

Willoughby, visibly affected by her words, swayed on his feet, then steadied himself. ‘Then, I shall leave you, as you ask.' He looked as if he wished to say more, but thought better of it. ‘Goodbye Mrs Brandon. Believe me as humbled in my present circumstances as I deserve, given my past behaviour to you. I am greatly obliged to you for your kindness to me here today.'

Marianne watched him walk to his beast, mount, and disappear from sight, and when he was quite gone away, she fell heavily to the ground, insensible in a dead faint.