Friday 14 April
The apothecary called again this morning. He was still hopeful of a speedy recovery, but I could see no sign of it. Miss Dashwood and Mrs Jennings were kept busy all day nursing the patient, and when I asked Mrs Jennings how she went on, she told me that Marianne was no better.
I did not retire until late, in case I was needed, but even so, once I reached my bedchamber, I could not sleep. I could only pace the floor and think of Marianne.
Saturday 15 April
‘I knew how it would be,’ said Mrs Jennings, as we sat together this evening. ‘Right from the beginning, I knew how it would be. She was ill, poor girl, but would not acknowledge it, and so she made herself worse before she gave in to nature and took to her bed. It is because she has been lowered by a broken heart. Ay, Colonel, I have seen it before, a young girl fading away after her lover proves false. Willoughby! If I had him here, what would I not say to him, behaving in such a way to my poor young friend. I hope he will be sorry when she dies of it.’
I tried to reason myself out of believing that death would follow, particularly as the apothecary did not seem despondent, but when I had retired and I was alone, I could not help giving in to gloomy thoughts and fearing I would see Marianne no more.
Sunday 16 April
The dawn dispelled my gloom, and I told myself that this was nothing but a common cold; neglected, it is true, but otherwise susceptible to a warm bed and tender care. In a few days, Marianne would be sitting up; in a few days more, she would leave her room; and before the week was out, she would be well again.
The apothecary confirmed my views when he came again this morning, saying that his patient was materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom was more favourable than on the previous visit.
Reassured, I went to church for the Easter service.
When I returned, I found that Marianne was still improving.
Miss Dashwood, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness.
‘I am relieved that I made light of the matter to my mother when I wrote to her to explain our delayed return,’ she said to me, as we sat together whilst Mrs Jennings took her turn in the sick room. ‘I would not have liked to worry her for nothing. As it is, I believe I will be able to write again tomorrow and fix a day for our return.’
But the day did not close as auspiciously as it began. Towards the evening, Marianne became ill again, and when Mrs Jennings relinquished her place to Miss Dashwood, she looked grave.
‘I do not like the look of her. She is growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before,’ she said, as she entered the drawing room.
Miss Dashwood rose.
‘It is probably nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made,’ she said. ‘I will give her the cordials the apothecary supplied, and they will let her sleep.’
She left the room, and Mrs Jennings and I settled down to a hand of piquet.
‘Poor girl, I do not like the look of her,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Mark my word, Colonel, she will get worse before she gets better.’
Her words proved prophetic. As I went upstairs when Mrs Jennings retired for the night, I heard a cry coming from the sick room: ‘Is Mama coming?’
I paused on the stairs, anxious at the feverish sound of her voice.
‘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.’
A bell rang, and a maid hurried past me.
Recalled to myself, I went downstairs again, where I paced the length of the room, wishing there was something I could do to help. Another moment and Miss Dashwood entered.
‘I am anxious, nay, worried, very worried,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘My sister is most unwell. If only my mother were here!’
At last! There was a way in which I could help.
‘I will fetch her. I will go instantly, and bring her to you at once,’ I said.
‘I cannot impose on you ...’ she began, with a show of reluctance.
‘It is no imposition, I assure you. I am only too glad to be able to help.’
‘Oh, thank you! Thank you,’ she said. ‘I do confess it would relieve my mind greatly if she were here.’
‘I will have a message sent to the apothecary at once, and I will be off as soon as the horses can be readied.’
The horses arrived just before twelve o’clock, and I set out for Barton to collect Mrs Dashwood and bring her to her daughter.
Monday 17 April
I arrived at Barton Cottage at about ten o’clock this morning, having stopped for nothing except to change horses, and braced myself for the ordeal to come. I knocked at the door. The maid answered it, and Mrs Dashwood appeared behind her, already dressed in her cloak.
Her hand flew to her chest as she saw me.
‘Marianne ...’ she said in horror.
‘Is alive, but very ill. Miss Dashwood has asked me to bring you to her.’
‘I am ready. I was about to set out, for I was alarmed by Elinor’s letter, no matter how much the tried to reassure me, and I wanted to be with Marianne. The Careys will be here at any minute to take care of Margaret, for I cannot take her into a house of infection, and as soon as they arrive, we will be on our way. But you are tired. You must have something to eat and drink.’
I shook my head, but she insisted, and as we had to wait for the Careys, I at last gave way. I ate some cold meat and bread, washed down with a glass of wine, and I felt better for it. The Careys arrived just as I was finishing my hasty meal.
‘Don’t you fret,’ said Mrs Carey to Mrs Dashwood. ‘I’ll take care of Miss Margaret. You go to Miss Marianne, my dear.’
‘Bless you,’ said Mrs Dashwood.
I escorted her out to the carriage, and we set off.
‘My poor Marianne, I should never have let her go to London alone,’ she said. ‘I should have gone with her, but I had no idea! I believed in Willoughby. He was well known and well liked in the neighbourhood. I never suspected ... I thought she would have such fun in London, but instead she found nothing but misery and mortification. And now this! Is she very ill?’
I could not deceive her, but I said that the apothecary was hopeful.
‘And Elinor? What does she think?’
‘That her sister will be more comfortable when you are at Cleveland.’
‘Then pray God we will soon be there. It is terrible, terrible. Oh, my poor Marianne! I should never have encouraged her attachment to Willoughby, but he seemed perfect in every way: young, handsome, well connected, lively; matching her in spirits and enthusiasms; sharing her taste in music, poetry, and everything else they discussed. They seemed made for each other. And yet he deceived her, abandoned her and married another. I should have made enquiries as soon as I saw her preference; I should have ascertained what kind of man he was, instead of relying on the assurances of Sir John which, though kindly meant, were based on nothing more than the fact that Willoughby was a fine sportsman and a good dancer. I should have asked her if they were engaged, instead of feeling I could not speak of it. I thought too much of her privacy and not enough of her health. Oh, what folly!’
‘You cannot blame yourself,’ I told her.
‘But I do, Colonel, I do!’ she said in anguish. ‘And now she is ill ...‘’
I tried to comfort her.
‘It is no good,’ she said, ‘I can see by your face that she is very ill. Tell me truthfully, do you think she will die?’
‘Oh God, I hope not!’ I cried, unable to contain my feelings any longer.
She regarded me in surprise, and then a look of understanding crossed her face.