Because most philosophies that frown on reproduction don't survive.

Thursday, November 11, 2021

Mrs. Dashwood, 7

 


This was frustrating to write -- not in terms of composition, but literally. Every time I started typing "El...", my fingers automatically completed it as "...eanor", the name of my oldest daughter. And every time I started typing "Mrs. Da...", my fingers automatically completed it as "...rwin." I think I've caught and changed every instance, but I beg your pardon if the error ever makes it into an installment.

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Previous

Mrs. Dashwood was of a amiable temperament, not inclined to solitude. Though her first sacrificial impulse on removing from Norland had been to bury herself in mourning in the country, she found that a cottage had little do to with the secluded life when one’s neighbors were the Middletons. Sir John’s carriage was always in readiness, and his day was devoid of pleasure if he could not prevail upon Mrs. Dashwood or the young ladies to indulge in some sociable scheme. A delegation from Barton appeared daily at the cottage to impart news to the fair inhabitants, or drink tea, or pass a civil message from Lady Middleton, or to gather them to go calling on the other families in the neighborhood. In this way, Mrs. Dashwood met the Careys, a merry family consisting of a pair of giggly sisters near in age to Marianne and Margaret followed by any number of brothers filling up the nursery, and the Whitakers, an elderly couple whose only surviving child was a invalid son who watched the vivacious Dashwood girls with hopeless eyes.

She found she had plenty of opportunity to impart wisdom to Colonel Brandon over the following fortnight, as he often traveled in Sir John’s company, whether to hunt or to dine or to pay a call on the Dashwoods. The golden days of late September were ideal for long rambles in the country surrounding Barton. Sir John, though an avid horseman, was no great walker, and often ended up riding home early to urge Cook to more lavish preparations for tea when the wanderers should return. Hence it was that Mrs. Dashwood found herself walking with Colonel Brandon and her daughters down a quiet lane along a valley in the hills surrounding Barton. The hills were wreathed in an warm autumnal glow, reflected in the rosy faces of the girls as they called each other forward to see some rustic marvel or botanical oddity. Mrs. Dashwood and the Colonel followed companionably at a more sedate pace.

“Have you completed your plan for improvements on the cottage?” Colonel Brandon asked. 

“One does not talk of alterations in terms of completion,” said Mrs. Dashwood, laughing. “There is always more to do on a house, as you must know yourself.”

“We have completed no plan,” said Elinor, joining the adults. “Indeed, we have hardly begun. But have no fear, Colonel — you shall see an altered cottage before the end of the decade.”

“Yesterday Margaret was describing to me her designs,” said Colonel Brandon. “I must say that I was most impressed. Where will you put these secret staircases and treasure chambers and priest holes?”

“Who is to say there is not a secret staircase already?” Marianne called back. “Why should we be condemned to a life of commonplace practicality by the misfortune of living in a house constructed not ten years ago?”

“Maybe we have a ghost,” said Margaret wistfully. “Did anyone die while building the house, do you know, Colonel?”

“I do not,” he said, with regret. “I was seldom much in this neighborhood before five years ago, and by then the cottage was already mouldering in hopes that one day a family of young ladies would find it romantic.”

“A family of young ladies finds it very modern, and very convenient, and very snug indeed,” Mrs. Dashwood said. “We had grown accustomed at Norland to think of a comfortable house as one with many rooms, and even at Stanhill before that — but only Elinor will remember well — we had many good-sized apartments. But Barton Cottage is teaching us moderation.”

“In everything but plans for alteration,” Elinor remarked to no one in particular. 

“Must we always speak of cottages, and schedules, and budgets?” Marianne demanded. “Come, Elinor, you at least are not too old to spoil an outdoor ramble with indoor business.”

“Marianne is much like you, is she not?” Colonel Brandon asked as Marianne, chased by Margaret, seized Elinor and whirled her through a cloud of leaves. 

“So I have often heard,” said Mrs. Dashwood. “She is the most like me in face, certainly — or as I was these years ago. Experience changes us all. Only children believe they will be young and strong forever.”

“I can attest to the effects of experience on my own face,” Colonel Brandon admitted, “but I am not brave enough to speculate about the age of the Dashwood sisters when their mother is indistinguishable from them.”

“You are most gallant, sir!” Mrs. Dashwood said, blushing with what she hoped was matronly dignity. “But honesty will not allow me to cede any of my four decades. I am content to be as I am, and to pass the burden of youth on to my children.”

“Burden, indeed!” The Colonel seemed weighed down with his own thoughts. “Youth is a time better remembered than lived. Even if one was permitted to relieve the past, it would be of no avail without the wisdom of age. How many missteps might have been prevented?”

“How can one be sure that other missteps might not take their place? Or what wisdom, gained through adversity, would be lost?”

They walked in meditative silence, stirring the leaves underfoot with each step. 

“Would you wish no past deed undone?” he asked abruptly, without looking at her.

“I… I do not know,” she said, startled. “I can think of many times I have been in the wrong, especially when I think of Mr. Dashwood. How heartily I have wished some unkind remark unsaid! But when I recall how generous he was in overlooking my many faults, I would not lose one instance of his goodness through a sterile perfection.”

“This is the rarest kind of family happiness, where even faults serve to increase love.”

Mrs. Dashwood had the curious impression that were she to ask him about his past regrets and mistakes, he would be pleased to answer, but her own curiosity made her hesitate. What right did she have to be so bold? Was she forgetting all propriety in the delight of having real conversation with a gentleman? What would her daughters think of her, and she not even widowed a year? What would Henry think of her, he who had always been so cheerful and trusting? Was she abusing that trust now? Why did she find such solace in kindly words from a man, as if she could not be content with the support of her daughters?

What would Colonel Brandon think of her? 

“Oh, Mama, come and see!” Margaret rushed up and grabbed her mother’s hand, pulling her briskly away from the temptation to talk like an adult. “We’ve found an manor house ahead, a big old-fashioned place, with enough room for a whole portrait gallery of ghosts.” 

“That must be Allenham,” said Colonel Brandon, catching up. “Old Mrs. Smith lives there, but she rarely goes out or receives visitors. I have met her once, and Sir John is neighborly with her. If you would like to see the grounds, I may be able to speak to the housekeeper.”

The girls perked up, but Mrs. Dashwood turned toward home. “We cannot trespass upon your kindness so far. And it is time for tea.”

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1 comment:

Catholic Bibliophagist said...

Oooo, good installment!