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The Fortunes of Harry Dashwood
It is a truth universally acknowledged, though perhaps less often observed in practice, that a mother’s indulgence, unchecked by moderation, may spoil the very child she intends to exalt. Such was the case with Harry Dashwood, the only son of John and Fanny Dashwood, whose earliest years were spent in the atmosphere of his mother’s unceasing admiration and his father’s gentler admonitions.
From infancy, Mrs. Dashwood filled his ears with visions of grandeur. “My dearest Harry,” she would say, smoothing his hair with affectionate pride, “there is no estate you will not improve, no family you will not elevate. Your father, good man as he is, lacks imagination. But you, my love, you will do greater things than he has ever dreamed.”
“Fanny,” Mr. Dashwood would interject, “you must not puff the boy up with notions of consequence. A gentleman is made by his character, not by his prospects.”
“You are too cautious, my dear John,” she returned. “Shall I not teach my only son to aim high? Shall I not tell him he deserves the best in life?”
“If you tell him so constantly, my dear, he will believe you,” replied her husband, with a sigh.
Harry, though sometimes imperious from such treatment, was not wholly insensible to his father’s counsel. Indeed, even in childhood he noticed; though with feelings too confused to define, that his father’s better impulses were often thwarted by his mother’s skill in persuasion. This discovery left in him an early distaste for artifice, though it never lessened his affection for her.
He preferred companions of every description, many of whom his mother considered shockingly unsuitable. Among them was Elizabeth Campbell, whose family, once respectable, had been reduced by her father’s early death to a life of plainness and poverty.
When Harry first brought Elizabeth to his mother’s notice, Mrs. Dashwood cried out in dismay.
“A Campbell! Harry, you must not associate with such people. They have no fortune, no consequence. The very idea is insufferable.”
“They are very good people, Mama,” Harry insisted. “Elizabeth is clever and kind. She knows more about birds and plants than anyone I have met.”
“That may be,” said Mrs. Dashwood, with disdain, “but cleverness without fortune is a poor recommendation. You are a Dashwood, you must remember your place.”
Mr. Dashwood, desiring peace, added timidly, “Harry, perhaps your mother is right that you ought to consider your society more carefully.”
Harry colored, but said nothing. The next day, he contrived, by means of a sketchbook and a long walk, to see Elizabeth again.
As they grew, so did their intimacy. Elizabeth, who never sought to impress, commanded his respect by the simplicity of her manners. If he boasted, she laughed; if he gave orders, she refused with good humor.
One afternoon, when Harry had spoken too loftily of his future estate, Elizabeth interrupted him.
“You talk as though the world were already yours, Harry,” she said, smiling. “But what if the world should object to being taken over?”
“Then I shall persuade it,” he answered.
“Ah, then you must learn from your mother,” she teased. “She persuades everyone...your father most of all.”
Harry, startled by her insight, exclaimed, “You see it too! I thought only I had noticed. But I do not wish to be persuaded as he is.”
“Then resolve to govern yourself, before you attempt to govern the world,” she replied.
Her words struck him with more force than any lecture his father had given.
By the time Harry was one-and-twenty, Mrs. Dashwood had fixed upon a plan for him. She spoke of Miss Morton, an heiress of excellent fortune, with increasing regularity.
“Harry,” she said after one such dinner, “did you not think Miss Morton extremely elegant this evening? Her fortune is twenty thousand pounds, her uncle sits in Parliament, and her manners are everything that is desirable.”
“She is elegant enough,” Harry allowed, “but I cannot love her.”
“Love!” cried Mrs. Dashwood. “Pray do not speak like a schoolboy. Love is a luxury; fortune is a necessity. Affection may follow in time, but it must not lead.”
“Then I shall never marry with fortune alone,” Harry replied, with more firmness than was usual for him.
Mrs. Dashwood’s eyes narrowed. “And who would you prefer? Do not tell me you are still wasting your time with that Campbell girl.”
“Elizabeth Campbell is not a waste of time,” he said, his color rising. “She is worth a dozen Miss Mortons.”
Mrs. Dashwood’s indignation was immediate. “Ungrateful boy! Would you disgrace your family with such a connection? A girl without portion, without name?”
“Without fortune, perhaps,” said Harry, “but with every quality that matters, sense, kindness, and honor. If I marry, it shall be her.”
Elizabeth herself was less eager for such a declaration. When Harry, full of defiance against his mother, pressed his suit, she answered with seriousness.
“Harry, you must not speak so. I cannot be the cause of disunion in your family. Your mother would never forgive me.”
“My mother will not govern my heart,” he replied passionately.
“But she governs your father, and your father governs the estate. What future could we have together, opposed by all?”
“We could be poor,” he said, “and happy.”
Elizabeth shook her head, though her eyes softened. “Happiness cannot be built on rebellion. If you are to love me, it must be with your father’s blessing, and without making an enemy of your mother.”
Harry seized her hand. “Then I will speak to my father this very evening.”
That night, Harry sought his father in the library.
“Father,” he began, “I must speak plainly. I love Elizabeth Campbell. I cannot be happy without her. Will you oppose me?”
Mr. Dashwood looked pained. “Harry, you know your mother’s feelings. She has great hopes for you, hopes that Elizabeth cannot fulfil.”
“Her hopes are for fortune, not for me,” Harry insisted. “Do you wish me to marry where I feel no affection?”
“No,” said his father slowly. “I wish you to marry where you will be good and useful. Tell me, does Elizabeth make you better?”
Harry paused, then answered with conviction, “Yes. She makes me ashamed of my vanity, and she encourages every generous thought I have. Without her, I should be nothing but my mother’s son.”
Mr. Dashwood was silent for a long moment. At last he said, “Then I cannot forbid you. I will do what I can to support the Campbells, though your mother must never know it.”
Harry’s gratitude was immediate and unreserved.
When Mrs. Dashwood next renewed her arguments in favor of Miss Morton, Mr. Dashwood surprised her.
“Fanny,” he said, “our son is of age. We may advise him, but we cannot command his heart. If he finds his happiness in Elizabeth Campbell, we must reconcile ourselves to it.”
“Reconcile!” she exclaimed. “To see our son throw himself away on poverty?”
“Better poverty with virtue,” said he, “than wealth without affection.”
Mrs. Dashwood could not be persuaded, but she was silenced. To oppose further would risk losing her son’s affection altogether, and that even her ambition could not endure.
Harry and Elizabeth were married with Mr. Dashwood’s quiet blessing, though without his wife’s approval. Their income was small, their establishment modest, but their happiness sincere.
“Harry,” Elizabeth teased one day, as they looked about their little home, “this is not the grand estate your mother promised you.”
“No,” he answered, smiling, “but it is better. It is ours, and it is founded on love, not on fortune.”
And though Mrs. Dashwood never forgave the match, the world at large soon forgot its impropriety, for it could not be denied that Harry Dashwood, in marrying Elizabeth Campbell, had chosen with more wisdom than his mother had ever exercised on his behalf.
The church at Barton was filled to its rafters with joy, for Miss Jane Dashwood, eldest daughter of Mr. Harry Dashwood and his wife Elizabeth, was, on that September morning, to be joined in marriage with Mr. Ezra Covington. The air was rich with the fragrance of late roses, and the pews crowded with friends and relations, among whom the proud parents of the bride sat with quiet felicity.
Elizabeth, in a gown of pale silk, had tears in her eyes that no fan could conceal, while Harry, grown somewhat graver with the years but no less warm of heart, sat by her side in contentment.
“I declare,” whispered Elizabeth, “our Jane has never looked more radiant.”
“Indeed,” replied Harry, his smile betraying both pride and wistfulness, “though I would confess she resembles you on our own wedding day.”
Elizabeth blushed at so public a compliment, but could not repress a smile.
Behind them, murmurs of speculation about the Dashwood family’s future were plentiful. For though Jane was now Mrs. Covington, it was their son, Matthew, upon whom the mantle of Norland’s continuance rested. In this matter, fortune had smiled generously. By marrying Miss Amelia Lowes, sole heiress of the Lowes estate, Matthew had united not only two affectionate hearts, but also the extensive acres of Norland with the broad lands of the Lowes family. Such an arrangement assured the Dashwood name not merely preservation, but enlargement.
Elizabeth leaned toward her husband. “It comforts me, Harry, to know Matthew is settled so well, and yet, what happiness I take in Jane’s choice! Ezra Covington has nothing of grandeur to recommend him but everything of worth.”
Harry clasped her hand gently. “Our children, dearest, have taught us what we once had to learn ourselves, that affection is a fortune far greater than land.”
Two hundred and fifty years had passed since Harry Dashwood and Elizabeth Campbell first joined their fortunes in affection and duty, and yet, in the brilliant glow of the neon skyline of New Mansfield Park, the Dashwood name was still as esteemed as in those earlier days. Towering glass facades bore the crest of Dashwood Inc., a company whose expertise in skin products, beauty sciences, and benevolent charity had carried the family not only through centuries but into prominence across continents.
At its head now stood Thomas Dashwood, the youthful yet resolute son of Nehemiah, newly appointed as Chief Executive Officer. The great boardrooms and dazzling advertisements seemed to him less impressive than the quiet thought that his name Dashwood had behind it generations of men and women whose choices had brought him to this place.
It was in a moment of unusual leisure, seated in his office high above the glowing streets, that Thomas confided in his cousin Lydia:
“I cannot help but wonder,” he said, “how it began. To carry the name so publicly is an honor, but what if I know only its modern glory and not its humble roots?”
“You intend to trace it?” she asked, raising an amused brow.
“Indeed. My father, Nehemiah, speaks often of his father William, and so on, but further back I can find only whispers. Yet, I have already learned of a Harry Dashwood, who married an Elizabeth Campbell in a parish nearly five centuries ago. Their son Matthew preserved the name when he united it with the Lowes estate. I must know more. I must see how their affection shaped our fortune.”
And thus, beneath the shimmer of New Mansfield’s lights, Thomas resolved to recover not merely the history of his house, but its spirit.
Word Count: 1902
Prompt: Write a poem or story using one or more of Jane Austen's characters from her novels.
Written for: "Jane Austen Writing Contest 250 Years"  |
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