Margaret Dashwood

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?”