Margaret Dashwood

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.