Chapter 41

CHAPTER 41

I t was upon this scene that the pale winter sun rose the following day, the strong cries of a lusty infant piercing the morning, the hustle and bustle of servants running to and fro as per the orders of Mrs Dashwood, and the plaintive voices of over-excited children trying to outdo that of their nurses. Into this domestic scene drove a hired chaise, drawn by two horses which were puffing white billows of hot breath into the winter air, and behind them two liverymen dressed finely. The carriage to rolled to a stop on the gravel outside the front door, the door of the carriage swung open and a gentleman appeared in the open space.

It was Teddy who gave the first alarm. The young adventurer, who at the behest of naughty William had dodged his poor nanny and had managed to get the nursery window open a good deal, had been attempting to clamber out upon the icy roof, William urging him on with mischievous enthusiasm. As Teddy noted the carriage, and then watched as the gentleman within stepped down from it, his face lit up.

‘Uncle Philip! Uncle Philip is home! Uncle Philip is home!' cried the boy, just as quickly clambering back inside and raising the alarm.

Within a few moments, a footman and two maids had quickly passed down the stairs to meet their master, calling out the news as they went, and quickly informed the Colonel of the situation within the house.

Mrs Dashwood, upon hearing the cause of the clamour from a maid who had come to exclaim the news, and who had been feeding Marianne from a bowl of thin gruel, stood up in disbelief, her eyes wide with wonder. ‘I knew he would come! Marianne! He is come back!' As she uttered the words, the bedroom door opened, and a haggard but eager Colonel Brandon entered the room.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing the form of his wife, lying still under the bedclothes, and her dreadfully altered looks, which did most urgently stab him with guilt, restricted him to a mere, ‘Marianne, my Marianne!' while his tone spoke such volumes as made any more words quite unnecessary. Mrs Dashwood, watching the whole, melted from the room and closed the door upon a scene of a most tender and emotional reunion.

Marianne weakly held out a pale hand to him, and immediately he received it to his breast, kissing it. His sense of guilt and shame seeming strengthened every moment by the hollow eye observing him, the sickly skin bearing cruel witness to her plight, and the acknowledgement of his own part in her illness, he struggled for some moments to speak. ‘Forgive me,' was all that he could manage, and she shook her head weakly.

‘My dearest Brandon!' Weakly, she drew his hand to her lips, two tears squeezing from below her eyelids.

Moved, the Colonel leaned forward and kissed her forehead most tenderly. ‘Do not weep, Marianne, my darling!'

‘Why did you not come?' Her eyes seemed to beseech him.

‘How can I ever learn to bear the guilt of the distress that I must have caused you by staying away so long! But I am here now, my dearest!'

‘I-I thought you were angry with me!'

‘Never!'

‘I never encouraged Willoughby, you know, his visit—both of his visits—were unwelcome—I never—' Marianne was racked with a sudden bout of coughing, and the Colonel gathered her in his arms.

‘Hush! I was such a fool, Marianne! Nothing matters now but that you get well as soon as you can. They tell me you are ill—but I had no idea of it! It is all my fault! Had I but been able to return home sooner! But you must sleep now, my dear Marianne.'

‘And you will be here when I wake? You really are home? I am not dreaming?'

He squeezed her hand again gently. ‘I have a long story to tell you, my darling, but Delaford is secure, and I shall not leave your side again!'

She breathed a sigh, her eyes searching his. ‘And you—you still love me?'

He did not need words to show her that his feelings were as constant as they had ever been, and after he had kissed her again most tenderly she consented to close her eyes and sleep, her husband finally home, and world beginning to come the right way up after being upside down for so long.

When at last he returned to his wife's chamber that afternoon, it was at her own summons. He found her half-propped up by pillows, and saw that she was much improved, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep that could only be possible with the return of her husband and his assurances of a constant and abiding affection. She looked at him now with eyes a little less hollow, and a brow less feverish than before, and even her cough did not trouble her as much .

‘I thought it had been a dream,' she said weakly, holding his hand in her own as he sat beside her. ‘I was almost afraid to ask Mary to send for you, in case I had dreamed it all!'

‘I am here, dearest one, and will always be, should you call. I have been foolish, Marianne, and there is no excuse for my insensitivity except that I was mad with grief and overcome by gloom. I neglected you. Can you ever forgive me?'

‘I do, my dear husband, I truly do!'

‘My grief and—dare I admit it—my guilt at losing Beth—I was for a time overcome with a sense that I had failed everyone.' His expression was pained and he stopped, unable to continue. Presently he continued. ‘In one respect, I failed you , particularly, Marianne. I selfishly brought the boy here—Willoughby's child—without asking you, so as to have part of Beth near me. She has been like a daughter to me—and I was just as a father bemused by grief.'

‘I know,' murmured Marianne, ‘I always knew it. I only wish you could have shared your feelings with the one person who longed to take the burden of them from you. There were days you were so cool towards me that I thought—I thought I had offended you!'

‘You did nothing—you were everything I could have wished—you are everything I could have wanted, Marianne—the fault was all mine! I could not bear anyone to know—I felt myself a failure!'

‘You are not a failure, dear Brandon! How could you be?' She clasped his hand more tightly. ‘Even when you brought William home, I never once thought badly of you—but I didn't understand why you would not consult me first! You must have known how difficult it would be for me—and yet my compassion for the boy was enough for me to bear his being here—Willoughby's child!'

‘I was a fool.' His voice was bitter, and he sat in deep thought for a few moments. ‘I ought to have been more sensible of your feelings, when I brought Beth's child here. I ought to have insisted that his father be made to support the boy—or I ought to have sent him away to school, to spare you the pain of having him here, brought up as one of your own. It was a selfish act, Marianne, and yet I did not know what else to do—I did not want a child of Beth's—Eliza's grandson—to grow up without my care, without knowing the warmth and love, the familial ties that he ought to have.' He was silent, then said haltingly, ‘I wanted him here. It was wrong, and I beg your forgiveness for my insensitivity! No wonder you thought I had less care for your feelings than my own!'

Marianne, however, could only shed tears of joy and relief. Though barely able to raise herself, she began to reach for him, and was at once supported by him into a sitting position whereupon she embraced her husband, with a look which spoke at once her forgiveness, and her conviction of his love. ‘Poor William,' she said after a short moment, drawing away from him slightly, ‘I do believe he is happy here—as happy as he can be without a father or mother—and that has been my comfort when I have might have been more resentful.'

‘You are too good, Marianne,' murmured the Colonel, drawing her close again. ‘But I have had much time for reflection, and much time to consider the boy's welfare. Before now, I have consulted only my own inclinations, and I own that in doing so, I have cruelly neglected both yours and the boy's. And, I shall not scruple to admit it, Willoughby's. You were right all along, Marianne. William belongs with his father, if Willoughby still wishes it.'

Marianne, tired and weak, could sustain herself no more and sank back into the pillows, but it was with tears in her eyes that she gazed at her husband. ‘If you truly can bear to part with William, then I believe Willoughby must still wish it, unless his sentiments have taken a turn since I last spoke with him. I have had no further contact with him since you last met him in Hanover-square. Philip, dearest, I never meant?—'

‘No, pray do not make yourself anxious, dearest; I have long forgiven you the unexpected meeting with Willoughby. You were never suspected of manufacturing the meeting, and as for Willoughby's coming to you, perhaps he was more sensible that I gave him credit for, knowing that I would have refused him outright. He sought your good offices, and he was right to come to you. The boy, if Willoughby is ready to own him, must go to his father, and I verily believe he will be well looked after. No father, whose son has been taken from him, can fail to love his other son even more deeply or care for him more as if to compensate for the loss of the other.'

‘Are you certain that is your wish?'

‘It is.'

‘I cannot but feel the deepest compassion for Willoughby, now,' sighed Marianne. ‘He has lost his son, and may indeed, lose his wife too, should he claim William as his own. Mrs Willoughby cannot be expected to agree to raise the boy as if he is her own. Willoughby must be enduring the greatest suffering at present, or I think he would never have tried to see me again.'

‘How can I ignore the grief of a man who has lost his son, when I have my own sorrow to remind me how harsh loss can be? William must be restored to his father. It is right and just that it be done.'

‘Dear Brandon!' Marianne sighed and kissed the hand which held hers so gently. ‘You are indeed the most noble of men. How lucky I am! But I must reprove myself for feeling too much for Willoughby, for to your sufferings, and your constancy, which I ought never to have doubted, my allegiance must be paid even more!'

His reply was to kiss her most ardently.

‘And tomorrow, you will tell me all that has passed and what you meant when you told me that Delaford was in danger? We are quite safe, now?'

‘Delaford is safe, and you must sleep again, and get your strength back.'

She assented with some reluctance to see him leave her, but he assured her of his coming back after dinner, and he left her to the care of the maid, who had come to bath her and change her night gown.