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”—