Mrs. Dashwood’s astonishment was very great. It was impossible to doubt
what she saw, and equally impossible to account for it. Margaret had
hardly been away from her during the seventeen years of her life, and
how she could possibly be on terms of intimacy with this unknown man
was a question to which there seemed to be no answer.
Margaret’s feeling on her mother’s appearance was relief. She was
very young, and unprepared for any great decision. For the moment
she had forgotten the amazement her mother must feel, and presented
Commander Pennington to Mrs. Dashwood with scarcely less than her usual
composure. Mrs. Dashwood could only conceal her feelings under a manner
as austere as she was capable of assuming.
There was a pause, but Commander Pennington had the sailor’s quickness
of perception and simplicity in dealing with a situation.
“I have had the happiness of meeting your daughter on the downs,
madam, on one or two occasions.”
The word “happiness” seemed to have more than its formal sense as he
used it, but the phrase was conventional and Mrs. Dashwood could not
object to its use. He continued:
“I have received orders to join my ship immediately and I leave here
to-morrow. I called this evening to say good-bye.”
He finished with an air of having entirely explained his visit at eight
o’clock in the evening at a house where he was a stranger. Nothing, it
appeared, could be more reasonable and proper than that he should be
there, and be found by her mother holding Margaret’s hand.
He sketched out for them his probable employment in the Baltic,
convoying merchantmen past the Danish coast to the Island of Rügen. He
hoped to be on shore again in about six months, when he would have the
happiness of seeing them again.
Mrs. Dashwood found herself included in his cheerful friendliness, and
it was not in her nature to do less than smile, and murmur something
which he could take as acquiescence. Margaret meanwhile sat silent. She
was happy, in a quiet glow of content. His going seemed remote and he
was giving her more and more the belief that she would be his object
in coming again. He sat with them for half an hour, conversing with
Mrs. Dashwood, whose manner by degrees softened, until at parting she
gave him her hand and wished him well. To Margaret he turned as he went
out, and, taking her hand, he pressed it and said in a half-audible
tone:
“I will come back. You will wait, will you not?” He was gone.
Margaret knew that her mother had a right to an explanation, but to
give it seemed beyond her powers. Her mind was agitated, and she longed
for solitude and silence. Mrs. Dashwood did not return to her room,
but took up her needlework. She did not say anything, but her whole
attitude was an unspoken question.
Margaret began with hesitation:
“I do not know him at all well. We just met once or twice on the downs.
It was strange of him to call.”
What could the tenderest of mothers say to that? Mrs. Dashwood felt her
sympathy checked and resorted to quiet reproach.
“But, my Margaret, I do not understand how you came to make his
acquaintance. I fear I have allowed you too much freedom. Why have you
not told me of your meetings with this man?”
“I do not think that there was anything worth telling about them. I am
sorry he disturbed you when you had a headache.”
Mrs. Dashwood was angered. Her daughter had concealed from her what was
undoubtedly of moment, and now parried her questions with something
like insincerity. She sat with a grave face, employing herself with
her needlework, and Margaret sat beside her engaged only with her
thoughts. She wanted her mother’s sympathy, but felt unable to ask for
it. All these explanations that were, she supposed, necessary, all
this surprise and blame must come first, and all she wanted was to
understand and be understood. “Wait!” What could she wait for but one
thing only? What could that be but the offer of his hand? He had better
have left it unsaid. It was at once too much and too little. Not enough
to give her confidence and too much for her peace of mind.
Mrs. Dashwood’s thoughts were sadder because more experienced. She
was a woman whose ardent nature led her to depths as well as heights,
and she was now reflecting with gravity on her own failures in life.
She had failed with Elinor. All through Elinor’s anxieties about
Edward and his engagement to Lucy Steele, she had not known of her
daughter’s trouble. She had been impatient with her, thought her cold
and unfeeling, and sympathized with Marianne, who said what she had
only thought. Elinor loved her, she knew, in spite of all, but that
was to Elinor’s credit, not to her own. Then with Marianne, how she
had encouraged her in her attachment to the faithless Willoughby! How
ill-judged she had been in allowing him such frequent opportunities!
All the sorrow of Marianne’s disappointment she laid at her own door.
It was her fault entirely. True, Marianne adored her mother, and was
the most devoted of daughters when they were together, but that was all
due to Marianne’s loving nature. She herself deserved only reprobation.
Now her Margaret concealed from her, almost lied to her, rather than
be troubled with her sympathy, and she herself was uncertain whether
to sympathize or to blame were the better course. Either might be as
mistaken as anything she had ever done. Mrs. Dashwood’s tears began to
flow, and instant relief was the result. She glanced aside at Margaret
and something in her attitude suggested that she too wept.
When two ladies who have an affection for one another weep at the same
time and for the same cause, and the cause is none other than their
fear of being unkind to one another, a reconcilement is not far away.
A very few moments passed before there were a few gentle embraces,
more tears, and Mrs. Dashwood and her daughter were once more in each
other’s confidence.
Margaret kept nothing back--as she had said, there was very little
to make known, and Mrs. Dashwood put all reproach resolutely behind
her, and was tenderly sympathetic. For that evening all was peace and
happiness for both of them, and Margaret went to sleep that night with
the thought of her mother’s affection mingling with the words:
“I will come back. You will wait, will you not?”