Margaret Dashwood

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.