Margaret Dashwood

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.