Bab Bab 8 · Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two

. 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, Mama, 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.”

“Mama, 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, “Mama,” 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?”