Elinor seated herself on a bench under a tree with Mary Whitaker, who
was seeking her society with the enthusiasm of the very young for an
elder whose notice is coveted. Elinor enjoyed the admiration, and could
gratify her sense of right by leading the conversation on lines likely
to be helpful in the development of Mary’s mind. It was not in Elinor’s
nature to enjoy anything fully unless she could perceive in it some
vestige of a duty; here duty and pleasure were combined.
The rest of the party were pacing up and down the avenue behind them
in twos and threes, and scraps of their conversation were wafted to
Elinor’s ears and mingled with Mary’s artless admiration in her mind.
“A capital fellow, Willoughby! He has got a dull little wife with a
fortune. I suppose one makes up for the other, but in my opinion he was
better off without either. When you marry, Miss Isabella, take care you
get a fine young man, and a little fortune too, and ask me over to
dance at your wedding. An old fellow like me----”
Sir John’s voice grew fainter, and Elinor’s attention was recalled by
the eager questioning of Mary as to the relative merits of Gainsborough
and Sir Thomas Lawrence’s portraits, a subject on which Elinor’s
opinion must be conclusive, as she drew very pretty pencil sketches
herself and had been to London. Another pair was approaching.
“There’s a table up School with all sorts of fellow’s names cut on
it--deep too. I mean to cut mine before I leave if I get a chance. I
found my grandfather’s name, and two of my uncles’. Did you cut your
name anywhere at Canterbury, Mr. Atherton----?”
“That’s Harry,” said Mary. “He is always talking about Westminster. I
do think it is rather hard that he should go to London twice a year
and I, who am older, have never been there. Do not you think so, Mrs.
Ferrars? He says I should not like to be at Westminster at all, but I
think it must be better than to be always in the country. Do not you
think so, Mrs. Ferrars?”
Miss Steele’s voice could now be heard from far away, and her
complaints made Elinor smile, and Mary redden with vexation on her
behalf.
“My sister, Lucy, married Mr. Robert Ferrars, so Mrs. Ferrars and me
are almost sisters; but then she is so cold and distant I do not like
to claim it, and indeed I am not sure that Lucy would wish it, for the
family thought it a very bad match for Mr. Edward, and they all look
down on his wife, so of course Lucy does too, as she is one of them.
Mrs. Ferrars, his mother, cannot forgive Mr. Edward for making the
marriage; for all that she is so fond of Lucy, so it’s not that she
is unkind and proud. But then Lucy has a way with her and I am sure
will take any trouble to get herself liked, and it’s that makes the
difference, Miss Penelope, you may be sure; for I always will say Lucy
is very nice when she isn’t being cross, and I miss her very much, for
she always knew what suited me better than I do myself. Sisters are----”
Neither Elinor nor Mary wished to hear more, and were satisfied that
the misdeeds of sisters should be lamented out of ear-shot. Mary’s
questions began again, and Elinor was delighting in talking of her
favourite painters when she stopped in surprise on hearing the voices
of the next party.
Willoughby, Margaret and Walter Carey were approaching. She could hear
Willoughby’s pleasant tones recounting some theatrical experience of
his own, Walter’s eager voice questioning him, submitting to his
judgment, consulting him, and Margaret’s low laughter and interested
comments. Every one making much of Willoughby, reinstating him,
admiring him! Elinor remembered that she herself had not repulsed him
on the night of Marianne’s illness; but then he had been anxious,
distraught, miserable. Common humanity demanded that she should bear
with him! Now, when he was at ease, self-satisfied, arrogant, it was
not to be endured that Margaret should help him in maintaining this
good opinion of himself.
The conversation had begun at the other end of the avenue by Willoughby
taking Walter’s arm as he strolled with Margaret under the trees.
“I hear you have had a friend of mine in the neighbourhood--a naval
officer--Commander Pennington. Did you see him, Carey?”
Walter denied all knowledge of Commander Pennington, and Margaret did
not claim any.
“He was at Grice’s farm for about a week, and I was at Allenham all the
while, which makes it all the more annoying. However, I hear he left
word with Mrs. Grice that he would be back in October at the latest; so
I shall contrive to be here then, if I can get Mrs. Smith to think she
cannot do without me.”
“How do you know him?” asked Walter, to Margaret’s relief. She feared
she might put the question herself if Walter failed in curiosity.
“I met him in London playing cards at my club first, and sometimes
since, and once at Lord Courtland’s private theatre. We were not
acting, either of us. Merely members of the audience, and prodigiously
bored at that. They did ‘Five Hours at Brighton,’ and it would not have
surprised me to hear that it was ten times as long. Pennington and I
got into a quiet corner where we could sit down and talk of something
else. Before all things private theatricals should not be too long!
Your choice of a play is a capital one, Carey. Indeed you are much to
be congratulated on play and players.”
From thence the conversation had drifted on to the point when Elinor
could hear them talking and laughing, and for the moment forgot
Mary Whitaker and her thirst for improvement in her anger against
Willoughby, and his desire for reconcilement.
Fortunately a move indoors for tea broke up the various parties, and
after tea no time could be wasted in talking when there was all the
business of dressing for the ball to be attended to. Mary and Henry
Whitaker were to stay the night, and their rooms were available as
dressing-rooms for the rest of the party, the ladies running in
and out of Mary’s room and that of the Miss Careys for ribbons and
hair-pins, shoe-ties and perfume; while the gentlemen brushed and
combed, talked and laughed in Henry’s room as much as in Walter’s, and
made him very happy in playing host to all these grown-up males to the
extent at least of lending them his brushes and having their coats laid
on his bed.
Downstairs there was consternation. The musicians had not arrived.
There was to be a fiddle and a cornet, and neither was come. Lady
Carey’s desperation was pitiable. Her round, happy face was ill-suited
to such looks of woe, and Sir Francis, meeting her on the stairs, was
disturbed out of his usual detachment. He was made acquainted with
the cause of her distress, and, with that spark of genius in mundane
affairs which is sometimes shown by those who spend their lives aloof
from them, he suggested that Miss Fairfield could play very nicely and
no doubt knew some pretty dance music.
Lady Carey’s relief was in proportion to her former despair. She
hurried along to the school-room door with the speed of one of her own
children, and there found Miss Fairfield practising her harp all alone.
A few minutes sufficed to make known to her the trouble she was called
upon to allay, and being, as Miss Penelope had said, a very good
sort of girl, she was ready to put on her prettiest gown and take her
subordinate but all-important part in the enjoyment of the evening.