feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_31_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Sense and Sensibility.chapters 45-46
feat_summary_id: chapters 45-46
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapters 45-46", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-4546", "summary": "As Elinor thought over what Willoughby had said, she pitied his condition. Her mother and Colonel Brandon arrived one half hour later, and Elinor, \"waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief.\" Marianne continued to mend, and on the following day Mrs. Dashwood confided to Elinor that Colonel Brandon was in love with Marianne; he had told her his feelings during their journey from Barton. He thought there was no hope for him and was \"too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition, he could ever attach her.\" But Mrs. Dashwood felt that he was perfect for Marianne and was convinced that she would one day accept him. The Dashwoods returned to Barton in Colonel Brandon's carriage, and Marianne was determined to be as cheerful as possible. Once settled, she decided on a plan of study and repose involving many hours of reading and walking. One day when she and Elinor were walking together, Elinor told her sister about the interview with Willoughby. Marianne was upset, but, with a kiss of gratitude, only murmured, \"Tell Mamma.\"", "analysis": "Marianne derives much of her sensibility and many of her romantic notions from her mother, whose emotions are often very much exaggerated. When Marianne is ill, Mrs. Dashwood is desperately anxious, for her habit of exaggeration persuades her that Marianne must already be dead. Thus, when she arrives at Cleveland, she has \"no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor.\" But as Marianne recovers, so her mother becomes bright and cheerful and begins her match-making schemes all over again, for she \"was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it.\" Marianne seems to have learned from her experience. She recognizes that she was the cause of her own anguish and illness. She sees how badly she has treated people and notes how differently she and Elinor have taken their disappointments."}
text: 
  
  Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the
  sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a
  crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness
  was the general result, to think even of her sister.
  
  Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most
  worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a
  degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made
  her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a
  tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
  within herself--to his wishes than to his merits.  She felt that his
  influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not
  in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that
  open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;
  and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even
  innocent to indulge.  But she felt that it was so, long, long before
  she could feel his influence less.
  
  When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her
  just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of
  her hopes.  Elinor's heart was full.  The past, the present, the
  future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's
  expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits
  which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful
  of betraying herself to her sister.  Short was the time, however, in
  which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after
  Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the
  sound of another carriage.--Eager to save her mother from every
  unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the
  hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support
  her as she entered it.
  
  Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced
  almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to
  inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither
  for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;--and her
  mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much
  overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears.  She
  was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her
  friend;--and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to
  speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals
  to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her
  gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss
  of the moment.  He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than
  her own.
  
  As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her
  first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,
  rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
  Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only
  checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther
  sleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when
  the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing
  her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for
  conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by
  every nurse around her.  Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night;
  and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed.  But
  the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the
  most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by
  irritation of spirits.  Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now
  allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would
  not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now
  acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before.  But her
  promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful.  She
  dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne
  might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be
  happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.
  Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS
  sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward
  of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.
  Willoughby's death.
  
  The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened
  to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her
  uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out
  for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further
  intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,
  that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,
  as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.
  
  Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of
  Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly
  declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.  Elinor could
  not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes
  wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward.  But Mrs.
  Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment
  which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to
  think only of what would increase it.  Marianne was restored to her
  from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken
  judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had
  contributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another
  source of joy unthought of by Elinor.  It was thus imparted to her, as
  soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.
  
  "At last we are alone.  My Elinor, you do not yet know all my
  happiness.  Colonel Brandon loves Marianne.  He has told me so himself."
  
  Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and
  not surprised, was all silent attention.
  
  "You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your
  composure now.  Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my
  family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as
  the object most desirable.  And I believe Marianne will be the most
  happy with him of the two."
  
  Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
  satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,
  characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be
  carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and
  therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
  
  "He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled.  It came
  out quite unawares, quite undesignedly.  I, you may well believe, could
  talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I saw
  that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship,
  as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather,
  not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings,
  made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for
  Marianne.  He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of
  seeing her."
  
  Here, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions
  of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's
  active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.
  
  "His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby
  ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or
  constant--which ever we are to call it--has subsisted through all the
  knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless
  young man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could
  he have seen her happy with another--Such a noble mind!--such openness,
  such sincerity!--no one can be deceived in HIM."
  
  "Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is
  well established."
  
  "I know it is,"--replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning,
  I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased
  by it.  But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready
  friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men."
  
  "His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on ONE act of
  kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the
  case, would have prompted him.  To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he
  has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him;
  and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very
  considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne
  can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our
  connection the greatest blessing to us in the world.  What answer did
  you give him?--Did you allow him to hope?"
  
  "Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
  Marianne might at that moment be dying.  But he did not ask for hope or
  encouragement.  His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible
  effusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent.  Yet
  after a time I DID say, for at first I was quite overcome--that if she
  lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in
  promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful
  security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every
  encouragement in my power.  Time, a very little time, I tell him, will
  do everything;--Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a
  man as Willoughby.-- His own merits must soon secure it."
  
  "To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made
  him equally sanguine."
  
  "No.--He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change
  in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again
  free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a
  difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her.  There,
  however, he is quite mistaken.  His age is only so much beyond hers as
  to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and
  his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make
  your sister happy.  And his person, his manners too, are all in his
  favour.  My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so
  handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much
  more pleasing in his countenance.-- There was always a something,--if
  you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like."
  
  Elinor could NOT remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her
  assent, continued,
  
  "And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to
  me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to
  be more solidly attaching to Marianne.  Their gentleness, their genuine
  attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much
  more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often
  artificial, and often ill-timed of the other.  I am very sure myself,
  that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved
  himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with
  HIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon."
  
  She paused.--Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her
  dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.
  
  "At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs.
  Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I
  hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly MUST be some small
  house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our
  present situation."
  
  Poor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but
  her spirit was stubborn.
  
  "His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares
  about THAT;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it
  really is, I am sure it must be a good one."
  
  Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and
  Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her
  friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.
  
  
  
  
  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 smoothly 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 forth 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 conjecture, 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 melancholy eye and varying
  complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many
  past scenes of misery 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 posture of reclining weakness,
  and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.
  
  Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful 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 gratitude 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 abode 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 joint
  invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature
  made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself,
  engaged with pleasure to redeem 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 lengthened 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 engross 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
  solitary way to Delaford.
  
  The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey
  on both, without essential fatigue.  Every thing that the most zealous
  affection, the most solicitous 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 anguish of
  heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to
  conceal, 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 awakened to
  reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common
  sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of
  resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom 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, procured 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 abatement in these happy symptoms.  On the
  contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked
  and spoke 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 mutual 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 plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;
  and we will often go to 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
  mere 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 twelve-month 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
  virtuous 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 prospect of busy
  tranquillity.  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 invalid like herself to venture out.  But at last a
  soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt 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 hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned
  towards it, Marianne calmly said,
  
  "There, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand, "on that projecting
  mound,--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 acting
  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 stopt.  Elinor joyfully 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 ME, of
  such designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--What in a
  situation like mine, but a most shamefully 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 fickle,
  very, very fickle."
  
  Elinor said no more.  She was debating within herself on the
  eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing 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 Marianne 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 judgment must censure.  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 perfectly 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 entirely brought on by
  myself by such negligence 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 abhorrence 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 insolent and 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
  compassion 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 lessen your restraints, by taking
  any part in those offices of general complaisance 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 deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for
  whom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake."
  
  Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
  impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly
  that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition 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 solely 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 incitement to move; and if I do mix
  in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my
  heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser
  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,
  everything would become easy."
  
  Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or
  impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, 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 recital, 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
  repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
  Marianne said not a word.--She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the
  ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them.  A
  thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
  one.  She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,
  unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered
  her cheeks.
  
  Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they
  reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing 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 mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up
  stairs.  Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable
  as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its
  result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne
  fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting
  injunction.
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapters 45-46
target: As Elinor thought over what Willoughby had said, she pitied his condition. Her mother and Colonel Brandon arrived one half hour later, and Elinor, "waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief." Marianne continued to mend, and on the following day Mrs. Dashwood confided to Elinor that Colonel Brandon was in love with Marianne; he had told her his feelings during their journey from Barton. He thought there was no hope for him and was "too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition, he could ever attach her." But Mrs. Dashwood felt that he was perfect for Marianne and was convinced that she would one day accept him. The Dashwoods returned to Barton in Colonel Brandon's carriage, and Marianne was determined to be as cheerful as possible. Once settled, she decided on a plan of study and repose involving many hours of reading and walking. One day when she and Elinor were walking together, Elinor told her sister about the interview with Willoughby. Marianne was upset, but, with a kiss of gratitude, only murmured, "Tell Mamma."
feat_summary_analysis: Marianne derives much of her sensibility and many of her romantic notions from her mother, whose emotions are often very much exaggerated. When Marianne is ill, Mrs. Dashwood is desperately anxious, for her habit of exaggeration persuades her that Marianne must already be dead. Thus, when she arrives at Cleveland, she has "no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor." But as Marianne recovers, so her mother becomes bright and cheerful and begins her match-making schemes all over again, for she "was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it." Marianne seems to have learned from her experience. She recognizes that she was the cause of her own anguish and illness. She sees how badly she has treated people and notes how differently she and Elinor have taken their disappointments.