Sense and Sensibility
was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was
particularly gentlemanlike.
There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as
companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton
was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of
Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his
mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to
enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner,
who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of
discourse except what related to themselves.
In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was
invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be
charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went
through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into
the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in
the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated
that event by giving up music, although by her mother’s account, she
had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.
Marianne’s performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his
admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation
with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently
called him to order, wondered how any one’s attention could be diverted
from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song
which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the
party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the
compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the
occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless
want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that
ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was
estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the
others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and
thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every
exquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every
allowance for the colonel’s advanced state of life which humanity
required.
CHAPTER VIII.
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?”
CHAPTER IX.
The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to
themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding
them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had
given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater
enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their
father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first
fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at
home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.
Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in
spite of Sir John’s urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the
neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at
their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood’s spirit overcame the
wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to
visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who
could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.
About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding
valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly
described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an
ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little
of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be
better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its
possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately
too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.
The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high
downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to
seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy
alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior
beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one
memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine
of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the
settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was
not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their
book, in spite of Marianne’s declaration that the day would be
lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off
from their hills; and the two girls set off together.