CHAPTER XIV.
The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon’s visit at the park, with his
steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the wonder of
Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great wonderer, as every one
must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all
their acquaintance. She wondered, with little intermission what could be the
reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every
kind of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination
that he should not escape them all.
“Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,” said she. “I
could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be
bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a
year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have
been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder
whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is
about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so
conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the
world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would
lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be
distressed in his circumstances now, for he is a very prudent man, and to be
sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May
be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off
in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble
with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain.”
So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every
fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor,
though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could
not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs.
Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did
not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation,
her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the
extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which
they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence
continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible
with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to
her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared
to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.
She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in
their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason
to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or
seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could
hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But
for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their
engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account;
and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice,
that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and
this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne.
Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than
Willoughby’s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing
tenderness which a lover’s heart could give, and to the rest of the family it
was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to
be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were
spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them
at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost
certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the
side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet.
One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the
country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of
attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood’s happening
to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly
opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as
perfect with him.
“What!” he exclaimed—“Improve this dear cottage! No. That I will
never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its
size, if my feelings are regarded.”
“Do not be alarmed,” said Miss Dashwood, “nothing of the kind will be
done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it.”
“I am heartily glad of it,” he cried. “May she always be poor, if she can
employ her riches no better.”
“Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not
sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I
loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever
unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I
would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so
painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no
defect in it?”
“I am,” said he. “To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only
form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I
would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of
this cottage.”
“With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,” said
Elinor.
“Yes,” cried he in the same eager tone, “with all and every thing
belonging to it;—in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should
the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I
might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton.”
“I flatter myself,” replied Elinor, “that even under the disadvantage of
better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house
as faultless as you now do this.”
“There certainly are circumstances,” said Willoughby, “which might
greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my
affection, which no other can possibly share.”
Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were
fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she
understood him.
“How often did I wish,” added he, “when I was at Allenham this time
twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within
view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should
live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear
from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton
cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the
event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should
experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?”
speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he
said, “And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob
it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in
which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours
have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of
a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the
room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation
and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the
world could possibly afford.”
Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should
be attempted.
“You are a good woman,” he warmly replied. “Your promise makes me
easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not
only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and
yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me
with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to
me.”
The promise was readily given, and Willoughby’s behaviour during the
whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.
“Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?” said Mrs. Dashwood, when he
was leaving them. “I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must
walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton.”
He engaged to be with them by four o’clock.
