The next morning found the Barton Cottage guest as eagerly determined
on gallantry as ever. He appeared at the breakfast table full of
admiration and discourse, and allowed no opportunity to slip of showing
himself to be at once an ardent observer of beauty and an able critic
in every department of life. He worked hard at the display and it was
by no fault of negligence that he was unsuccessful in impressing the
ladies.
Mrs. Dashwood was not without surprise. His admiration of Margaret
was too determined to be altogether genuine and it was matter for
wonder that he should be so anxious to secure her good opinion on any
other grounds than those of real preference. Her fortune was small in
fact, and there was nothing in their way of living to suggest that it
was considerable. Mrs. Dashwood therefore acquitted him of mercenary
designs, but felt at a loss as to what motive should be attributed to
him. Possibly the whole thing was mere vanity and display.
She had arrived at this conclusion by the time breakfast was finished,
and spoke her intention of walking out after she had given her orders
for the day. Mr. Atherton begged to be allowed to accompany her,
and the permission was reluctantly given, but was immediately made
valueless by the timely entry of Sir John. Never had she been so glad
to see his ruddy face and to hear his hearty voice! He was surprised
himself at the warmth of his reception. Though he had not perceived
anything amiss on former occasions, he must be conscious of the extreme
pleasure with which he was greeted now. The pleasure was not however
unalloyed. He came to suggest that he might have the satisfaction of
taking Mr. Atherton round the village and making him known to his
parishioners. So far all was to the good, and the attention to Mr.
Atherton greatly appreciated by all present; but the happy effect was
spoiled by what followed.
“If Miss Margaret will forgive me for taking her beau away from her for
a morning. Never mind, Miss Margaret, you shall have his company this
afternoon, and be able to show him off too, and turn Miss Nancy green
with envy, for I am charged by Lady Middleton to beg that you will do
us the honour of dining with us today; you and Mr. Atherton and Mrs.
Dashwood too, if she will be so good.”
Mrs. Dashwood was not in the habit of accepting casual invitations
to the Park, but on this occasion she thought it best to do so. The
evil of allowing Margaret and Mr. Atherton to appear there without her
seemed greater than that of herself enduring the tediousness of the
engagement. She therefore accepted with her usual grace, and Sir John
and Mr. Atherton went off together, leaving the ladies entirely without
regret at their departure.
“Can this possibly be endured?” was the question in both their minds.
“Is there no way to avoid the continued infliction of the young man’s
presence?”
Mrs. Dashwood was a fortunate woman in that a circumstance which to
some people would be a grief often presented itself to her happy
temperament in some other light. Mrs. Thomas greeted her mistress
with a very long face. Her husband was far from well, was, in fact,
quite unfit for his duties and, with this gentleman in the house, Mrs.
Thomas really did not see how things could be as they should. It was
very much against her husband’s wishes to fail his mistress at such a
time, but it was hoped that she would understand. Mrs. Dashwood cut
short the apologies. Of course Thomas must take the necessary rest.
All could well be arranged. They were dining at the Park that day,
and she had no doubt that Sir John and Lady Middleton would relieve
the Cottage of their guest. It would be quite simple for Mr. Atherton
to be transferred to the Park. Meanwhile they would send word to the
apothecary to ask him to visit the Cottage and recommend treatment.
Mrs. Thomas did not think this necessary, and the interview closed
with mutual esteem--Mrs. Thomas admiring Mrs. Dashwood as a kind and
considerate mistress, and Mrs. Dashwood full of appreciation for the
worthy pair who would be the means of ridding her of her uncongenial
guest.
Margaret was soon acquainted with this desirable prospect, and
expressed all the elation expected by her mother. She really felt
satisfaction and relief, but a considerable portion of her mind was
unaffected by this. She was experiencing some depression of spirits.
The return home had been eagerly anticipated. She did not greatly
enjoy the visits to her sisters’ houses. She was there of little
importance to anyone, and her mother, her chief companion, was,
naturally, absorbed in the delight of playing with her grandchildren
and advising their mothers. Delaford was no very pleasurable abode
for Margaret; and now, when she was come home, what did she find? Sir
John and Mrs. Jennings with their curiosity and jocularity. Lady
Middleton, true, was not yet encountered, but what hope was there that
she would be less cold, less conventional than was her wont? Miss Nancy
Steele? Uneducated! Inquisitive! What improvement could be looked for
there? Mr. Atherton, who might have brought some interest into their
surroundings, was more tedious, more utterly uninteresting than any of
the others. He had not even the charm of familiarity.
Her mother was her only comfort and, even there, so much brightness and
eagerness were sometimes hard to appreciate. She _would_ like so many
people, was so determined to think well of every one, so universally
affectionate and credulous. Her dislike of Mr. Atherton was a relief,
but even that would only last a few days. Once he was out of the house,
and need only be listened to on occasions, he would take his place as
one of “our kind neighbours who must be treated with attention.”
Margaret felt that her spirits required some change, and she decided to
take a walk which had been a favourite one with Marianne and herself
ever since their first coming to Barton Cottage. She would climb the
High-church down, and there, meeting the fresh wind, she would escape
from the discontent and weariness of spirit of which she was ashamed.
Her mother made no objection, and she started on her solitary ramble.
There was now no Elinor at hand to suggest that every one should take
exercise together in the same direction at the same time. Mrs. Dashwood
and Margaret were able to do as they wished without comment. This was
something to cause rejoicing and, as Margaret mounted the hill in the
spring sunshine, her spirits rose also.
The slope she ascended led directly from their garden gate, and she
recalled, as she hastened up it, that day some four years ago, when she
and Marianne were caught in a sudden storm on the summit, and raced
each other down the hill. Marianne caught her foot, and sprained her
ankle. Willoughby had appeared--“Marianne’s preserver.” She remembered
with a smile that it was she who had given him the name. Willoughby had
appeared, and had carried her sister to the house, and the next few
weeks had been all romance and excitement, until the dreadful time had
come when Marianne had wept all day, and her mother and Elinor went
about with grave sad faces, and no one ever thought of telling her
what it was all about. Then her sisters had gone to London and she and
her mother had spent happy months together, all too soon ended with
Marianne home ill and Elinor more severe than ever. After all there was
nothing to excuse so much unhappiness, for Elinor had married Edward
Ferrars, and they seemed to like each other very well, and not to mind
being rather quiet and dull; and Marianne had married Colonel Brandon,
although she always said he was too old to think of marrying, and
Marianne was not only happy, but rapturously so; and she did not seem
to think the Colonel dull at all, and would certainly have minded very
much if he had been so.
All of which passed through Margaret’s mind as she climbed, and
convinced her that she missed Marianne very greatly, and that it was
her absence which was the chief cause of her own discontent.
A sharp gust of wind met her on the summit, and, to her consternation,
the light scarf which she held round her shoulders was lifted from her
grasp and blew away across the down. She hurried after it, hoping that
it might catch on some tuft of grass, or stone, or hawthorn tree, and
over the next rise she encountered it again.
It was in the hands of a young man of pleasing appearance, who had
evidently caught it on the wind, and was looking at it with great
interest. She paused on seeing him, and he, at the same moment
perceiving her, hurried towards her with a smiling face to return her
property. His manner was so open and unaffected, his pleasure in being
of use so evident, his eye so bright, his person so agreeable, in
fact, his whole bearing so truly amiable that she felt some regret that
it seemed right to do no more than accept the scarf, proffer her thanks
and turn away to descend the hill.
This was not at all what he approved, however, and he asked at once if
she had not intended to walk on the down in the direction from whence
he came. Margaret admitted that this was so, and was proceeding on
her walk when she found to her surprise that he intended to walk with
her. Perhaps she was wrong to allow it, but it was not easy to object
without incivility, and he walked by her side with such easy grace and
without the appearance of thinking that he was behaving in any way
out of the ordinary. It was pleasant and it was very unexpected, and
Margaret was in a mood to appreciate either.
They walked for some three-quarters of an hour, conversing on general
topics when the high wind made it possible. She parted from him where
they had met without having learnt his name or told him her own.
As she returned to the Cottage she decided to say nothing of this
encounter. “It is of no moment,” she thought. “We shall never meet
again. My mother might think me indiscreet. She might even speak of
it. They might come to the knowledge of it at the Park.”
With that dreadful thought her mind was finally made up. She would not
speak of the agreeable stranger to anyone at all.