The ball was to begin and end early. The dancers came from distances of
from three to four miles, and the journey home, though in moonlight,
must be regarded. There were to be eight or ten couples. Five more
ladies were expected and three more gentlemen. It was feared that Sir
Francis would not dance, so unless the ladies could be persuaded to
be so good as to stand up together there would only be a set of eight
couples.
Willoughby, in pursuance of his method of daring all, applied to Elinor
for the honour of her hand for the first two dances. He fully deserved
the reply he received, that Mary Whitaker was to be her partner.
Mary, who had not heard of this arrangement before, was fortunately
disengaged and, as she had no hope of being asked at first by Walter
Carey, was quite ready to be one of the ladies who were applauded for
their good-nature.
Willoughby next made application to Margaret, who accepted. Neither
Walter nor Henry had been quick enough, and were obliged to content
themselves with her promise for later in the evening.
Willoughby did not again approach Mrs. Ferrars. He was satisfied at
opening the ball with the sought-after Miss Margaret Dashwood, and
after that devoted himself for the rest of the evening to the Miss
Careys and the more attractive of their friends.
Margaret found much to enjoy in the first two dances. Willoughby was an
accomplished dancer, and she was spared all the anxiety and shame which
an indifferent partner can inflict, and which she had to endure with
Walter Carey, who, though anxious to excel, was too fond of talking to
attend to the dancing, and too fond of dancing to attend to the music.
It was a lamentable performance, and Margaret looked forward with dread
to the next two dances, which had been claimed by Henry Whitaker.
It might be argued that, if we could go through life dreading enough
things, we should never have a moment of real distress, so uniformly is
it the case that things dreaded turn out better than could be hoped.
Henry was a capital dancer, attending to his business with a steady
gravity, and not to be turned from the right path by any mistakes that
others, who should have known better, might make.
There was now a pause in the evening’s gaiety, and a general move to
the dining-room where supper was laid. Margaret found herself placed
at table by Mr. Atherton, who having remarked on the excellence of
the floor, the decorations and the supper, went on to comment on the
excellence of the music.
“Miss Fairfield is a very fine performer. Do you not think it
remarkable, Miss Margaret, that she does not tire of playing all these
country-dances?”
“Perhaps she is tired,” said Margaret. “It seems hard that she should
play for us to dance. I might play the next after supper I think;
but that would be useless unless she got a partner, and with so many
ladies---- What do you say, Mr. Atherton, will you engage her to dance
with you if I offer to play?”
Mr. Atherton agreed at once.
“That is very good of you,” she said. “When we are again in the
drawing-room I will ask her to let me take her place at the instrument,
and do you be on the watch, and come up at once when you see her
prepared to dance. She must not know that we have spoken of it.”
Mr. Atherton professed himself very happy, and the plan so neatly
arranged was carried out to perfection. Miss Fairfield danced as
well as she played, and Mr. Atherton beamed with good-nature and
satisfaction with his lady and himself.
Margaret’s last partner was an unexpected one. Sir Francis had been
watching the dancers from the doorway with an air of amused toleration.
He now approached her, professing himself able to get through Sir
Roger de Coverley if carefully instructed, and offered himself for her
tuition. She felt that it was to Elinor that the compliment was due,
and was astounded at its being made to herself. She found him more _au
fait_ with the dance than he had professed. His bows were more courtly,
his style of dancing more deliberate than was customary, but he made no
mistakes and required no reminding. Walter Carey, who was dancing with
Mary Whitaker, eyed his father from time to time with an affectionate
smile, but Margaret was unable to determine whether he was amused or
pleased with the elder man’s activity.
Elinor had danced only with Mary, Sir John and Mr. Atherton. She had
sat down after supper, holding a desultory conversation with Lady
Carey, who was sick to death of all of them, and longing for the first
carriage to be announced. Elinor herself was too tired to talk, and
they sat together, thankful for each other’s intermittent silence.
Sir John’s manservant at length brought the carriage to the door, and
the hour of release had struck. Mr. Atherton was to stay the night
with the vicar of Newton, and be driven over to Barton by the Careys
in time for the dress-rehearsal on Wednesday. This had the result of
leaving an inside seat in the carriage for Sir John, which proved to
be an advantage for Elinor also. Hardly had they turned out of the
drive gates before Sir John was asleep, and though Miss Steele would
have chattered all the way home if she had been allowed, Elinor forbade
all talking lest Sir John’s slumbers should be disturbed. Whether
solicitude for him were her only object, or whether she would have
liked quiet herself, she was only partially successful, but Miss Steele
did not talk above half the time, and hardly ever spoke or laughed
really loud.
When Elinor and Margaret were put down at the gate of Barton Cottage
and walked up the little path to the door, it seemed to both that they
had been away something more like a week than a day. Their mother was
awaiting them with inquiries as to their enjoyment and offers of soup
or hot wine and water. The questions must be put aside until they
themselves knew whether they had enjoyed the day. For the moment they
only knew that they were exceedingly tired; but the hot wine was a
welcome suggestion. Margaret was sufficiently restored by it to give
her mother some account of the amusements of the day, but Elinor did
not find that she would be able to do justice to her vexation with
Margaret for her encouragement of Willoughby until she had had the
further refreshment of a night’s sleep.
No one, not even Lady Carey nor any of her household, was more glad
than Elinor of the quiet comfort of her pillows. The dance music ceased
at last to plague her brain, and she forgot her vexation and weariness
in dreams of home and of young Master Ferrars.