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Chapter 8
Mrs. Jennings was a widow with
an ample jointure. 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 anything
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," 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?"
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