Sense and Sensibility
the particulars of Mr. Jennings’s last illness, and what he said to his
wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable
than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little
observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner
with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she
was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be
looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not
said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her
spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties
arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style
and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive
more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at
home;—and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others,
by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only
reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her
troublesome boys.
In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find
a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite
the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby
was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly
regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly
Marianne’s, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally
pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such
encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor
he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.
Elinor’s compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect
that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.
This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from
him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by
mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on
Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint
smile, “Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second
attachments.”
“No,” replied Elinor, “her opinions are all romantic.”
“Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.”
“I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the
character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A
few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of
common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define
and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.”
“This will probably be the case,” he replied; “and yet there is
something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is
sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.”
“I cannot agree with you there,” said Elinor. “There are inconveniences
attending such feelings as Marianne’s, which all the charms of
enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems
have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a
better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her
greatest possible advantage.”
After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,—
“Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a
second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those
who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the
inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be
equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?”
“Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.
I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second
attachment’s being pardonable.”
“This,” said he, “cannot hold; but a change, a total change of
sentiments—No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements
of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they
succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I
speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind
greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who
from an enforced change—from a series of unfortunate circumstances—”
Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,
and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not
otherwise have entered Elinor’s head. The lady would probably have
passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what
concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but
a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender
recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in
her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have
been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing
established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.
CHAPTER XII.
As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the
latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of
all that she knew before of Marianne’s imprudence and want of thought,
surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her,
with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one
that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was
exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was
not in her mother’s plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter
her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the
servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable
to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and
told her sister of it in raptures.
“He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,”
she added, “and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share
its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a
gallop on some of these downs.”
Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to
comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for
some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,
the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to
it; and any horse would do for _him;_ he might always get one at the
park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then
ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a
man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much.
“You are mistaken, Elinor,” said she warmly, “in supposing I know very
little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the
world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is
to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be
insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven
days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of
greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from
Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together
for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed.”
Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her
sister’s temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach
her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for
her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent
mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she
consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly
subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent
kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw
him next, that it must be declined.
She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the
cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to
him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his
present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related,
and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible.
His concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with
earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,—“But, Marianne, the horse
is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till
you can claim it. When you leave Barton to form your own establishment
in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you.”
This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the
sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her
sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so
decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between
them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each
other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or
any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover
it by accident.
Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this
matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding
evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour
with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations,
which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest
sister, when they were next by themselves.
“Oh, Elinor!” she cried, “I have such a secret to tell you about
Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon.”
“You have said so,” replied Elinor, “almost every day since they first
met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I
believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round
her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great
uncle.”
“But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married
very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.”
“Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of
_his_.”
“But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne’s. I am almost sure it is, for I
saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of
the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could
be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took
up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all
tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of
white paper; and put it into his pocket-book.”
For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not
withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance
was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.
Margaret’s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory
to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park,
to give the name of the young man who was Elinor’s particular
favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,
Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, “I must not
tell, may I, Elinor?”
This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.
But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed
on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a
standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.
Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good
to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to
Margaret,
“Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to
repeat them.”
“I never had any conjectures about it,” replied Margaret; “it was you
who told me of it yourself.”
This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly
pressed to say something more.