詹宁斯太太是一位有着丰厚联合嫁妆的寡妇。她只有两个女儿，都已体面地出嫁，因此她如今无事可做，只想给这世上其余的人说亲。在促成此事上，她极为热心主动，只要力所能及，便不错过任何机会，为她相识的年轻人撮合婚事。她特别善于察觉情愫，曾靠暗示某位年轻小姐如何迷住了某位青年，惹得不少姑娘脸红又得意，这也算她的一大能耐。到巴顿没多久，她便断然宣称布兰登上校十分倾心于玛丽安·达什伍德。头一晚相处时，她就有些疑心了——因为他听玛丽安唱歌时那般专注；后来米德尔顿一家来 cottage 回请，他再听她唱时，这事便坐实了。必定如此。她对此深信不疑。这是桩极好的姻缘，因为他有钱，而她貌美。自打通过约翰爵士结识布兰登上校起，詹宁斯太太就一直盼着他成个好亲；而给每个漂亮姑娘寻个好丈夫，也是她一贯的心愿。
这对她自己立竿见影的好处也不小，因为她有了取之不尽的笑料，拿他俩打趣。在庄园里她笑上校，在 cottage 里笑玛丽安。对上校而言，她的调侃只要只关他自己，大概全然无所谓；可对玛丽安来说，起初根本摸不着头脑，待明白所指，她几乎不知该笑其荒唐，还是责其无礼——因她觉得那是对上校年事已高、老光棍孤况的一种冷酷嘲讽。
达什伍德太太绝不认为一个比自己小五岁的男人，会如女儿青春想象中那般老朽，便斗胆为詹宁斯太太辩解，说她未必存心要拿他的年纪取笑。
“可至少，妈妈，您不能否认这指责的荒唐，虽您或不以为她存心恶意。布兰登上校当然比詹宁斯太太年轻，可他也够做我父亲了；就算他曾经动情过，那种感觉也早该消磨殆尽。太可笑了！若年老体衰都护不住一个男人免遭这种俏皮话，那他何时才安全？”
“体衰！”埃莉诺说，“你管布兰登上校叫体衰？我容易想见，他的年纪在你眼里比在妈妈眼里大得多；可你总不能自欺说他四肢不行了吧！”
“你没听他抱怨风湿？那岂不是衰老最常见的体衰？”
“最亲爱的孩子，”母亲笑道，“照这说法，你必得时刻担心我老朽；而我能活到四十高龄，在你看来定是奇迹了。”
“妈妈，您冤枉我了。我清楚布兰登上校还没老到朋友要担心他自然死去。他还能活二十年。但三十五岁和婚姻毫不相干。”
“或许，”埃莉诺说，“三十五和十七最好别一起扯上婚姻。可若真有姑娘二十七还单着，我不觉得上校三十五岁是他娶她的妨碍。”
“二十七岁的女人，”玛丽安顿了顿说，“绝不能再指望感受或唤起爱意；若她家居不舒、钱财微薄，我料她或为生计安稳，甘做看护之劳。所以他娶这样的女人并无不妥。那是便利之约，世人也会满意。在我眼里那根本不算婚姻，但无所谓。于我不过一场买卖，各欲损人利己。”
“我知道，”埃莉诺答，“你绝难信服二十七女对三十五男能有近爱，使他成她良伴。但我得反对你仅凭他昨日（又冷又潮之日）怨肩头微风湿，便判他夫妇常困病榻。”
“可他提了法兰绒背心，”玛丽安说，“于我，法兰绒背心必连酸痛、抽筋、风湿及老弱一切病苦。”
“若他只发高烧，你倒不这么瞧不起了。承认吧，玛丽安，高烧里的红颊、凹眼、急脉，对你岂无动人之处？”
不久埃莉诺离房后，“妈妈，”玛丽安说，“有桩病事我瞒您不过。我确信爱德华·费拉斯不妥。我们来此近两周，他竟不来。除非真病，何致此异延？诺兰德还能有何羁他？”
“你原以为他这么快来？”达什伍德太太说，“我可没想。倒之，若我对此有过虑，也是忆起我提他去巴顿时，他偶显不悦不情愿。埃莉诺盼他来吗？”
“我没提过，但她必盼。”
“我倒觉你错，昨我与她说给客卧换新炉栅，她说不急，因房许久不用。”
“奇哉！何意！可他俩举止向来难解！末别何冷何静！末晚言谈何懒！爱德华辞别，对我和埃莉诺无差：如兄祝妹。末晨我两遣他俩独处，他皆莫名随出。埃莉诺离诺兰德与爱德华，不似我泣。至今她自控如常。她何时颓丧？何时避人或于众中不安？”}
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?”
