Elinor was surprised on Tuesday afternoon, while sitting at work with
her mother, to hear familiar footsteps coming up the path. It was
Edward, bringing news of the intended visit to Scotland, of Margaret’s
improved health, of the well-doing of their child, and lastly, though
this was not explicitly stated, of his mother’s continued ill-temper.
Elinor was happy to have him with her, and Mrs. Dashwood scarcely less
so. She was delighted with the scheme for taking Margaret to Scotland,
delighted to have news of her grandchildren, and, though regretting
Elinor’s nearer departure, delighted to think of her daughter having
the pleasure of her husband’s society.
The dinner-hour was never more pleasantly spent, Mrs. Dashwood
expressing in every look and word that affection for her sons-in-law
which so greatly enhanced the happiness of their wives.
Dinner being over, Edward wished to walk down to the village, where
he had left his chaise and horses, see to the comfort of the latter,
and call at the parsonage for a word with Mr. Atherton. Mrs. Dashwood
agreed to accompany him, and they walked away together.
Elinor was still standing at the gate after seeing them on their
way when she became aware of some one approaching from the opposite
direction. It was a stranger to her; an agreeable-looking man. He
walked fast, and was soon near. Though she had still no idea of his
being acquainted with her, from his stopping and bowing she saw that
he, at least, claimed some knowledge of her.
“My name is Pennington,” he said, “I am acquainted with Mrs. Dashwood
and her daughter. Is it to Mrs. Ferrars that I speak?”
This last was a conjecture founded on Willoughby’s description of
Elinor, which her expression at the moment almost justified.
“Yes, I am Mrs. Ferrars. My mother is out walking. Can I give her a
message from you when she returns?”
She did not ask him to come in, and he did not appear to wish it. He
only looked at her steadily and asked:
“Is Margaret well?”
She replied in a simple affirmative.
“Is she at home?”
“My sister is at Delaford with Mrs. Brandon,” then, as his face showed
a determination which she construed correctly, she added: “Unless she
has already started for a tour in Scotland.”
“You do not know for certain?” he asked.
Elinor replied that she believed they had not started yet. She was
angry with herself for telling him so much, but his questions and his
look were so direct that she must be sincere.
He thanked her courteously, said he would write to Mrs. Dashwood,
and walked off as he had come, leaving her with some regrets for her
lack of cordiality. Her regrets would have been increased, though the
grounds changed, if she had been able to see round the corner of the
lane. For as he walked along with head bent in thought, he was hailed
by whom but Willoughby!
Richard Pennington was decidedly the less interested of the two, but he
nodded pleasantly, shook hands, and asked:
“What brings you here?”
“Nay, I might rather ask that,” said Willoughby. “I thought you were to
be in the Baltic for another month at least.”
“We were recalled on the very day I got your letter. We were paid off
yesterday.”
“Well, then! Again I ask you what brings you here? Here is a man just
come ashore, and with money in his pocket, and he spends his time in a
Devonshire village. What’s the attraction? I know Mrs. Grice was once
your nurse, but you can surely do without her for a few months at a
time?”
Richard Pennington’s reply was that he was leaving Barton at once.
Willoughby immediately asked if he was going to London, and if so
offered a seat in his curricle.
“I may go to London eventually, but at present I am on my way to a
place called Delaford. Have you any knowledge of its whereabouts?”
“Delaford? I have never been there, but I have a friend, an old friend,
who lives at the mansion. I will drive you thither on my way to London,
and perhaps call on my friend. No! best not, but I will certainly take
you there. I suppose you have business to transact. Do you know the
Brandons?”
Pennington replied that he did not. He did not feel for Willoughby the
degree of confidence and friendship which was professed for himself,
and though willing to take a seat in the curricle and to talk on
affairs in the Baltic or other less important matters, he had no idea
of discussing his errand to Delaford with anyone.
“I must write a letter and pack my bag, and will then be at your
service,” he said, “if, as I understand, you wish to start this
evening. Otherwise I will see if I can hire a chaise.”
“You are in a hurry! However, I am willing to start in an hour’s time
if it pleases you. There is moonlight, and we shall be well on our way
before dark. We can sleep at Honiton and reach Delaford in the morning.”
Richard Pennington returned to the farm, wrote a short note to Mrs.
Dashwood, and was gone before the farm-lad, to whom he gave it for
delivery, had put it into Thomas’s hand at the door of Barton Cottage.
Mrs. Dashwood and Edward returned from their walk, chatting of trivial
matters. They were met by Elinor with so disturbed and anxious a
countenance that her mother took instant alarm.
“Have you bad news? Has a post come while we were away, or a messenger?”
Elinor reassured her. Nothing untoward had happened. There had been a
visitor, and she had been uncertain how to act, but hoped she had done
right.
“Tell me, Elinor, what is it? I insist on knowing the worst.”
“Pray, mamma, do not be disturbed. The visitor was Commander
Pennington. He asked for you, and I told him you were not within, and
he asked for Margaret, and I fear I did wrong--but I told him where
Margaret is.”
“I do not see why that should be wrong,” said Mrs. Dashwood. “I
suppose he will come and see me again. Did he say where he was staying?
He did not expect to be in England again so soon, when he left us last
April.”
She spoke in a light, cheerful tone. She had always considered that
Elinor thought too much both of Richard Pennington’s admiration of
Margaret and of his possible shortcomings. Elinor’s kindness and
goodness of heart must always be valued, but her mother did sometimes
wish she would be less serious.
“Who is this Commander Pennington?” asked Edward. “Is it that admirer
of Margaret’s? By the way, I wonder if by any chance he is Richard
Pennington. If so, I knew him some six or seven years ago, long before
I became a country parson. He spent some of his leave with a friend of
mine, an excellent fellow. I wish I had seen him.”
Poor Elinor! Her discretion had been too great, and she regretted it as
she had never expected to regret the exercise of her favourite virtue.
Her mother appeared to think her discretion as unimportant as anything
else in the matter. The subject was swept aside, and Edward was led to
give an entertaining account of Mrs. Ferrars at Delaford Parsonage,
and the various grounds of complaint over Elinor’s arrangements,
which amused both ladies excessively. Elinor, secure in Edward’s
satisfaction, cared for no other criticism, and Mrs. Dashwood shed
tears of laughter at the account Edward gave of Mrs. Ferrars’s servants
compelled to associate with the parsonage maids, who knew nothing of
London ways.
Edward’s bag must now be unpacked, and Elinor went with him to see him
do it, and arrange his handkerchiefs and brushes as he liked. They
had not been together for some weeks, and it was natural that some
half-hour should be occupied in what need not have taken many minutes.
While they were absent a note was handed to Mrs. Dashwood, which she
read with astonishment:
DEAR MADAM,
I called this evening in the hope of seeing your daughter, Margaret.
If I had been so fortunate as to find you at home I should have told
you of my errand, which was to ask your daughter to become my wife. I
hear that she is starting for Scotland almost immediately. There is
therefore no time to be lost if I am to see her before she goes. When
this is in your hands I shall be on my way to Delaford.
Believe me, dear madam,
Yours obediently,
RICHARD PENNINGTON.
Mrs. Dashwood read and reread the letter. She had to decide at once.
Should she, or should she not, speak of it to Elinor? She decided that
she would not do so; shut it in her desk, and stood by the window
looking out at the rising moon. She would not answer the letter. He did
not ask for her consent--it was not her consent that he wanted--but as
she remained there looking out into the garden, and thinking of her
Margaret at Delaford, she gave him her consent, and wished him well
with all her heart.