CHAPTER XI.
Little 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 shown; 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. Jennings’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 minutiae 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 enforced
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.
