Mrs. Dashwood’s attempt to exclude Mr. Atherton’s name from her
conversation with Sir John was not caused by any wish on her part to
keep the intended visit a secret. She was well aware that nothing
of the sort was possible, but she would have been better pleased if
Sir John and Mrs. Jennings had accepted her first excuses. Though
accustomed to their raillery on the subject of courtship she never
became reconciled to it, and had a habit of avoiding all mention of
young men when in their society. She had therefore desired to postpone
for herself and Margaret the witticisms which she knew to be inevitable
as soon as Mr. Atherton’s arrival should be known.
Marianne had once remarked that, though the rent of Barton Cottage was
said to be low, they had it on very hard terms, as they were under the
necessity of dining at the Park whenever anyone stayed with either
family. Mrs. Dashwood had long ago decided that she did not choose to
accept such frequent invitations; but in her own case she felt that
she paid over and over again for the advantages of her pretty house
in the annoyance she experienced in having her daughter’s affections
and prospects made the subject of continual joking and surmise on the
part of Sir John and Mrs. Jennings. The real regard which the family at
Barton Cottage entertained for Mrs. Jennings’s kindness of heart did
not lessen their disapproval for the freedom of her manners; and Sir
John, in the course of the four or five years of their acquaintance,
had developed no such admirable qualities as to make his tedious
vulgarity endurable. Mrs. Dashwood was too truly amiable to speak
either of or to her neighbours in any censorious fashion, but she often
marvelled at the calmness with which Margaret received their sallies,
and wondered if her youngest daughter could be lacking in some of the
fine sensibility which so distinguished Marianne, and the delicacy of
feeling which was Elinor’s greatest charm.
Margaret had long ago made up her mind to present a calm front to Sir
John’s attacks and his mother-in-law’s jocularity. She had a painful
remembrance of the day when she had hinted before Sir John at the
secret of Edward Ferrar’s attachment to Elinor. She had suffered in
consequence. Elinor had felt the indignity of this public discussion
of her private affairs, and Margaret had incurred her resentment. This
had been no light matter in Barton Cottage. Miss Dashwood had a manner
of expressing herself which, though perfectly gentle, was none the
less reproving, and neither her mother nor her sisters could face the
possibility of Elinor’s displeasure with equanimity. Margaret came to
dread Sir John’s jokes, his drinking to her sister’s best affections,
his allusions to the letter F, his sly inquiries, fully as much as
Elinor could herself; and, while Miss Dashwood could feel that these
annoyances were entirely undeserved, to Margaret’s distress was added
a sense of guilt, which only increased as time went on and she became
more fully aware of her mistake.
When her sisters married, and she herself became the object of the
raillery at Barton Park, she made up her mind that smiling calm would
prove the best defence; that she would show nothing, and if possible
feel nothing, of vexation, and that no one, not even her mother, should
have reason to suppose her affected by any remark on the subject of
love and marriage.
Margaret and her mother occupied themselves in silence for some time
after their visitors had taken their leave. Mrs. Dashwood had spent
some months with her married daughters in the quiet elegance of their
homes, where beaux and courtship were not the subject of attention. She
felt her serenity threatened by the recent incursion, but Margaret,
as she sat engaged with some needlework, looked so unconscious of any
disturbance that Mrs. Dashwood’s spirits returned to their usual level.
“I look forward eagerly to the arrival of our guest,” she said. “He
will bring us some news of your brother and his wife.”
“We may hear how little Henry says his piece, and what schemes for
economy my brother has in his mind,” replied Margaret, “but I do not
expect news.”
Though Mrs. Dashwood’s contempt for John and Fanny could hardly be a
secret to anyone but herself, she was always ready to champion the
absent; and she now remarked with approval that Fanny was indeed a
devoted mother, and that John’s caution in expenditure might be of
great service to little Henry.
Margaret’s reply was that she considered Mrs. John Dashwood an admiring
rather than a devoted mother, and that she did not think her brother
was really consistent in his economies, which were prompted more by
meanness than by caution.
Mrs. Dashwood admitted that she preferred wise expenditure, and the
conversation was not continued.
A slight shower was followed by sunshine so brilliant as to draw Mrs.
Dashwood to the window in admiration. She was just in time to see a
curricle draw up and a very fine-looking young man descend.
“This must be our guest,” she cried, and noted with approval his air of
fashion and the becoming cut of his many-caped driving coat.
A moment later and he was bowing to the ladies in the parlour,
and expressing his felicitation in being admitted to their quiet
home circle. He had, he said, spent the night at Exeter, and been
so overcome by the beauty of the Cathedral and the charm of the
surroundings that he had been in no great hurry to continue his
journey. However, here he was at last and, had he known that so much
beauty and so much charm awaited him, he would have been up betimes in
order to make his stay the longer.
Mrs. Dashwood replied that they were themselves but just returned home,
and rang the bell for Thomas to show her guest to his apartment.
Mr. Atherton’s conversation could be checked, but could not be
diverted. He had come prepared to admire Margaret, and admire her he
would. He was in the habit of recounting his experiences, and recount
them he would. The dinner-table served as an appropriate opportunity
for both. Mrs. Dashwood and her daughter must perforce listen, and no
interruption beyond the offering of a dish by Thomas, or some gentle
direction to the servant on the part of Mrs. Dashwood, was possible. He
was sure of his audience and of their attention, and took all else for
granted.
After a careful description of his journey he allowed himself to return
to more personal topics.
“I have had the pleasure of meeting your son and his charming wife,
madam. They were so good as to ask me to dine with them and, after
dinner, I had the felicity of beholding a portrait of yourself and your
two lovely daughters, the work, so I understand, of your eldest and
most highly gifted daughter. I was therefore in some degree prepared--I
may say I expected almost a disappointment, but such is far from being
the case.”
Mrs. Dashwood thought it best to misunderstand, and said with a
pleasant smile that Barton was a pretty, agreeable place and the
neighbourhood a good one. She could answer for it that Mr. Atherton
would find it no disappointment, but possibly beyond his expectations.
Mr. Atherton would not allow his compliments to be so misinterpreted.
His gallantry must not be wasted on the village of Barton when it was
intended to bring the smile of pleasure to Miss Margaret’s bright eyes.
He said as much, and received no reply from either lady. However, he
was satisfied that his meaning had been made clear to them, and was
for the present content to leave the subject of Margaret’s beauty and
to display the perfection of his taste in some other particulars.
“You have a very pretty dining-parlour, madam, and a charming prospect,
but that mulberry tree is too near. Take my advice, madam, and have
it cut down. You would then secure a beautiful open view across the
valley.”
Mrs. Dashwood was so good as to give her reasons for sparing the tree.
They were that the tree was an old one and supplied some shelter from
prevailing winds, and that she and her daughter were partial to the
fruit. Mr. Atherton considered these excuses should weigh but lightly
against the improved health which might be expected from the removal of
the tree. Trees too near a house were unhealthy. Small rooms were also
to be deplored. Did Mrs. Dashwood not consider this dining-parlour too
small for comfort?
“Our party is a small one,” replied Mrs. Dashwood. “It is large enough
for my daughter and myself, and it is seldom that we have any company.”
“Still, a spacious room is much to be desired. I would never willingly
dine in a room less than twenty feet long. Twenty feet or perhaps
twenty-two. The feeling of being cramped for space is, I think,
intolerable. I should recommend your throwing this room and the
adjoining one together. You would then have a very handsome room, one
of which you could be justly proud.”
“But I should have only one parlour,” Mrs. Dashwood protested, “and
there is a passage between this and the sitting-room.”
“All the better! You could include the passage, and have a noble room
indeed. A sitting-room could very easily be built on the lawn there.
True, you must then cut down the mulberry tree, but that would be all
to the good. They are untidy trees, and the wood is, I believe, capital
fuel.”
Margaret suggested that these improvements would be expensive.
“No, I assure you, the cost would be trifling,” was his reply. “My
father’s own brother enlarged his house in some such way, and the
cost was really nothing, a mere song, and the improvement beyond all
words. His room was majestic. No other description would suffice. Truly
majestic!”
Mrs. Dashwood declared that she and Margaret lived so quiet a life that
a cosy room was all they desired.
Mr. Atherton considered this point, but would not concede it. It gave
him, however, a fresh impetus. He now perceived another subject on
which his advice might be of value.
“But, madam,” he protested, “is it well, do you think, to lead so
quiet a life? You should travel. Nothing so enlarges the mind and
refreshes the intellect as travel. Let me urge you to take Miss
Margaret travelling.”
“We are but just returned from a visit,” said Mrs. Dashwood, still
smiling, “and I think we are ready for a little quiet. The garden is a
pleasure, and my daughter has her instrument.”
“Nothing to the purpose,” asserted Mr. Atherton solemnly. “The
enjoyment of music, the pleasures of scenery, the delights of
conversation are all enhanced by travel, and nothing can take the place
of travel as a means of improving the mind.”
Mrs. Dashwood, having intercepted a look from Margaret, was unable to
make any reply, and Margaret interposed sweetly to allow her mother
time to recover her gravity.
“Where do you suggest our travelling, sir? What have you done yourself
that you can recommend?”
Then it appeared that he was no traveller himself. He had often wished
to travel, and had always been prevented, sometimes by inclement
weather, sometimes by engagements in town, once by an exceedingly bad
cold, but he was an advocate for travel in general, and believed every
one was the better for it.
Mrs. Dashwood mentioned the theatre, and Mr. Atherton hastened to
inform her that Drury Lane was in the course of rebuilding, that Edmund
Kean was the finest actor of the day, that Mrs. Siddons was growing
old, that Lady Macbeth was undoubtedly her finest part, and that the
theatre generally had undergone a change for the better in the past few
years.
Mrs. Dashwood hardly knew what to do with so much information. She
was attempting some reply when Margaret gently interposed with some
remark about the new publications, and in a moment he was off again,
talking of Scott, of Campbell, of Lord Byron, and of Southey without
intermission and without any real perception, till the ladies seized
the opportunity of a moment’s hesitation to rise from the table and
leave him to his wine.
Mr. Atherton soon followed them. Mrs. Dashwood had taken the precaution
to have by her some volumes of poetry, and on his appearance
immediately begged him to read aloud. He selected “The Lady of the
Lake,” and the evening was passed in tolerable comfort listening to his
rhythmic rendering of the adventures of James Fitz-James.