Margaret Dashwood

Margaret held to her resolution not to walk on High-church down next morning. She found it increasingly hard to do so, and became conscious of deeper dejection of spirits with every hour of sunshine that passed.

Mr. Atherton came and talked of the family at the Park, and of most of the families in the village. If interest in other people’s affairs makes a good parish priest, there was no doubt that he would be an excellent one, but it was more and more clear that the even more desirable qualities of disinterested goodness and refined tastes were deficient. Margaret found it almost impossible to sit still for weariness.

The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Atherton “in the pulpit” was eagerly anticipated by the congregation. Enough to say that he surpassed all expectations, his own and other people’s. He was more eloquent than he had thought possible himself; more learned than the simple parishioners had wished; more noisy than Sir John in his slumbrous moments liked; longer than Lady Middleton approved, and even more silly than Mrs. Dashwood and her daughter expected.

Sunday afternoon was spent by Margaret in pacing the shrubbery, and sitting with her mother when she was too weary to continue her exercise.

Monday evening, so eagerly anticipated by other young ladies of Sir John’s acquaintance, was looked forward to by Margaret with quiet distaste. She entered the ballroom without the smallest hope of enjoyment. This is frequently exactly the state of mind which leads to the keenest pleasure; and, if the evening did not afford quite that to Margaret, it was at least amusing and interesting beyond her hopes.

She was necessarily engaged to Mr. Atherton for the first two dances and, as she performed her task with all the grace of mind and motion she could summon to her aid, she became aware of an entry which made some stir in the company.

“Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby” were announced, and again she beheld the man who had once been so familiarly known and so dearly loved by her sister and mother. “Our dear Willoughby!” How often she had heard him so spoken of! He looked older, graver, but handsome, well-dressed as ever, and again his presence and manner put that of other men somewhat in the shade. Amazing man! Wherein lay his charm? She knew him to be faithless, mercenary, careless of other’s good, but when he approached her at the end of the first two dances and inquired for her mother and sisters, his deference of bearing, his earnestness and his wish to please overcame at once her remembrance of the distress he had caused. He asked her to dance, and she complied.

He spoke of Marianne, calling her by her name. Was she happy? As beautiful as ever? Did her son resemble her? Was she ever with her mother at Barton? His questions came fast, as if they had been long in his mind.

She answered with what discretion she could, but discretion was swept on one side by his eager inquiries. She knew it to be wrong. He was a married man—had slighted her sister for his present wife. What right had he to such feelings? What could he mean by so expressing them? He did not, as a fact, mean anything. He was desirous of having news of Marianne, and careless as ever of appearances.

Margaret could not approve, but she found his continued infatuation for her sister in some way engaging. They had met on High-church down. It was but right that young men who frequented the down should be deeply in love. Margaret blushed at her thought, but continued to think it. Light, music and graceful motion do induce these thoughts. Perhaps balls were invented for that very purpose.

The rest of the evening was less interesting. Mr. Atherton claimed another two dances, and a very young Mr. Carey secured another two. Mr. Willoughby applied to her for the last two, but she was tired, tired of him and tired of herself. She pleaded fatigue and sat down till Thomas, now fully recovered, arrived with a lantern, which the bright moonlight made unnecessary.

She was glad to be again in her mother’s parlour and to drink some soup by the fire, which the chill of April evenings still made comfortable. Her mother’s surprise and displeasure on hearing that she had danced with Mr. Willoughby were soon charmed away by her account of his conversation. He had no right to take such liberties, but Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for him. It was but natural that he should still love Marianne—though it was very wrong. It was pleasing that he should so desire to hear of her—but she could not excuse the affront to his wife. Mrs. Willoughby was not at all pretty and looked very ill-tempered, Margaret said, but that was no excuse for neglect. All the same Mrs. Dashwood felt excuses, if she would not make them, and the end of it all was that he was much to be pitied, and that Marianne was much happier as Mrs. Brandon than she ever could have been as Mrs. Willoughby.

Margaret wondered privately if this were so.