CHAPTER XI
ittle had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when
they first came into Devonshire, that so many
engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly
presented themselves, or that they should have such frequent
invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little leisure
for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne
was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad,
which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into
execution. The private balls at the park then began; and parties on
the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery
October would allow. In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was
included; and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended
these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to
his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of
witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated
admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself,
the most pointed assurance of her affection.
Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only
wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did
venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to
Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all concealment where no real
disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of
sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to
her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection
of reason to common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby
thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an
illustration of their opinions.
When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every
thing he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their
evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated
himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If
dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners
for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of
dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word
to any body else. Such conduct made them of course most
exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed
hardly to provoke them.
Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth
which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of
them. To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong
affection in a young and ardent mind.
This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was
devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland,
which she brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be
softened than she had thought it possible before, by the charms
which his society bestowed on her present home.
Elinor’s happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much
at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They
afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she
had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland with
less regret than ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings
could supply to her the conversation she missed; although the
latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded
her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her
discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor
three or four times; and had Elinor’s memory been equal to her
means of improvement, she might have known very early in their
acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jenning’s last illness, and
what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady
Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being
more silent. Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her
reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had
nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the same
as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for
nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not said
the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits
were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties
arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in
style and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared
to receive more enjoyment from them than she might have
experienced in sitting at home;―and so little did her presence add
to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation,
that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst
them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.
In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did
Elinor find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of
abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a
companion. Willoughby was out of the question. Her admiration
and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a
lover; his attentions were wholly Marianne’s, and a far less
agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel
Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement
to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor he found
the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.
Elinor’s compassion for him increased, as she had reason to
suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been
known to him. This suspicion was given by some words which
accidentally dropped from him one evening at the park, when they
were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the others
were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a
silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint smile, “Your sister, I
understand, does not approve of second attachments.”
“No,” replied Elinor, “her opinions are all romantic.”
“Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.”
“I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting
on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I
know not. A few years however will settle her opinions on the
reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they
may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by
any body but herself.”
“This will probably be the case,” he replied; “and yet there is
something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one
is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general
opinions.”
“I cannot agree with you there,” said Elinor. “There are
inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne’s, which all
the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone
for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting
propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is
what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage.”
After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying―
“Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against
a second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are
those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether
from the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of
circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their
lives?”
“Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutia of her
principles. I only know that I never yet heard her admit any
instance of a second attachment’s being pardonable.”
“This,” said he, “cannot hold; but a change, a total change of
sentiments―No, no, do not desire it,―for when the romantic
refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how
frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too
common, and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I once
knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your
sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an inforced
change―from a series of unfortunate circumstances”―Here he
stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much, and
by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not
otherwise have entered Elinor’s head. The lady would probably
have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss
Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips.
As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his
emotion with the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor
attempted no more. But Marianne, in her place, would not have
done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed
under her active imagination; and every thing established in the
most melancholy order of disastrous love. |
