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.”
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“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
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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.”