CHAPTER VIII.
Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample
jointure.c She had
only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably
married, and she had now, therefore, nothing to do but to marry all
the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she was
zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no
opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of
her acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery of
attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes
and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power
over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her,
soon after her arrival at Barton, decisively to pronounce that
Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She
rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their
being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to
them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons dining at
the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her
again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would
be an excellent match, for he was rich, and she was
handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon
well married, ever since her connection with Sir John first brought
him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good
husband for every pretty girl.
The immediate advantage to herself was by no means
inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them
both. At the Park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at
Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it
regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it
was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood,
she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure
its impertinence; for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection
on the colonel’s advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an
old bachelor.
Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years
younger than herself so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the
youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings
from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age.
“But at least, mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity
of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally
ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs.
Jennings, but he is old enough to be my father; and if he
were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived
every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to
be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect
him?”
“Infirmity!” said Elinor, “do you call Colonel
Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much
greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive
yourself as to his having the use of his limbs! ”
“Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism?
and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?”
“My dearest child,” said her mother, laughing, “at
this rate you must be in continual terror of my decay; and
it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the
advanced age of forty.”
“Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very
well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet
apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live
twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with
matrimony.”
“Perhaps,” said Elinor, “thirty-five and seventeen
had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if
there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at
seven-and-twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon’s being
thirty-five any objection to his marrying her.”
“A woman of seven-and-twenty,” said Marianne, after
pausing a moment, “can never hope to feel or inspire affection
again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I
can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices
of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife.
In his marrying such a woman, therefore, there would be nothing
unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world
would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but
that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial
exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of
the other.”
“It would be impossible, I know,” replied Elinor,
“to convince you that a woman of seven-and-twenty could feel for a
man of thirty-five any thing near enough to love, to make him a
desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming
Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick
chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very
cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his
shoulders.”
“But he talked of flannel waistcoats, ”5 said
Marianne; “and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected
with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that
can afflict the old and the feeble.”
“Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not
have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there
something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and
quick pulse of a fever?”
Soon after this, upon Elinor’s leaving the room,
“Mamma,” said Marianne, “I have an alarm on the subject of illness
which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not
well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not
come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this
extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?”
“Had you any idea of his coming so soon?” said Mrs.
Dashwood. “I had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any
anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he
sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my
invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor
expect him already?”
“I have never mentioned it to her, but of course
she must.”
“I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was
talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare
bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it,
as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some
time.”
“How strange this is! what can be the meaning of
it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been
unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! How
languid their conversation the last evening of their being
together! In Edward’s farewell there was no distinction between
Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to
both. Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of
the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me
out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried
not as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she
dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or
appear restless and dissatisfied in it?”