CHAPTER XXI
Willoughby had no difficulty in obtaining from Mrs. Grice the whereabouts of his “friend,” Richard Pennington. Consequently, when the letter-bag was opened on board the “Wren,” among other correspondence the following letter engaged the attention of the Commander:
Dear Pennington,
Imagine my chagrin on hearing you had been in my neighbourhood in April. My wife and I were staying at Allenham at the very time you were at Grice’s farm. A most annoying circumstance that I did not know you were there! I am here again, this time alone, for which I am duly grateful. Mrs. Smith has been unwell and wished to see me. I hear that you expect to be in England in October. Do, my dear friend, like a good fellow, come to me at Combe Magna. To be eternally shut up with one woman is more than any reasonable man can stand, and, although I get what society I can, none is more desired than yours. I cannot come here again unless I am summoned by the all-powerful Mrs. Smith. You know how she can keep me on a string. I have therefore no certainty of seeing you unless you will be compassionate.
Here nothing is thought of but a play in Sir John Middleton’s garden. Do you remember how we quizzed “Five Hundred Hours at Brighton”? This is just such another. Comus booming and mouthing, the Lady piping and squealing, and two girls standing about with their hands on their hips and calling each other “Brother.” And then the rout. Ye gods! The rout! Sir John in purple, a middle-aged spinster in red, and about ten children in home-made masks. True it was “unruly,” and so far in accordance with the author’s intentions. The only relief was Sabrina, a very pretty young person indeed with plenty of fair hair and a good singing voice. The part was taken by her at the last, as Miss Margaret Dashwood was taken very ill the day before. Young Walter Carey believes her to be dying, and is frantic with grief and anxiety. A touching spectacle! If she dies he will have to begin all over again with some one else, as he is the only son and the baronetcy must be carried on. Margaret is a sweet girl, though not the equal of her sister, Mrs. Brandon, but the gods defend me from the eldest sister, Mrs. Ferrars! How she came to be married no one knows! Was anyone ever better cut out to be an acid spinster? She blesses the home of the Reverend Edward Ferrars, who can hardly speak above a whisper and does not know one end of a gun from the other. The mother is an amiable woman enough.
Do, my dear Pennington, take pity on me and come and spend a week with me in the autumn, shooting my covers. I shall depend on your giving me your society. Till then I shall be prodigiously bored.
Such was the account of the doings at Barton that travelled out to the Baltic, and was taken on board the “Wren.” In the same letter-bag came out the orders from the Admiralty recalling the sloop of war. The “Wren” was to proceed to Portsmouth, where the crew would be discharged. Richard Pennington’s gravity of demeanour was the subject of comment among the men. They would be glad to get on shore themselves, and see their homes and wives again, but the Commander looked as if the order for recall was bad news.
The theatricals met with more general approval than would be supposed from Willoughby’s account: but as with him, so with all, it was Miss Fairfield’s performance that was most admired. A very pretty girl and a stranger (for who had noticed the Careys’ governess?) was bound to be an object of interest in a neighbourhood where strangers were rare and beauty not common.
Mrs. Dashwood had made a point of speaking to her at once, and thanking her for her kindness in taking her daughter’s place, and, when she left to return to Margaret, others followed, asking Lady Middleton for the introduction, or introducing themselves, until an admiring cluster gathered round the place on the lawn where Sabrina stood in her filmy draperies. All of which was more gratifying to Miss Fairfield than to the other young ladies, who had all done their best, and had learned very much longer parts. But rewards are most unequally distributed in this world, and there could be no question that, whoever deserved recognition, it was chiefly to the attendant Spirit, whose boy’s voice had happened to be delightful in the summoning song, and to “Sabrina fair” herself, who had taken no great pains with her part, that it was given.
There was to be an informal ball at the Park in the evening. Sir Francis and Lady Carey took their little girls home, but kindly left Miss Fairfield to enjoy the dancing. However humdrum a life she might look forward to on the morrow, the afternoon and evening of this day were all that could be desired.
Mrs. Jennings had planned to walk down to the Cottage early in the morning after the play to inquire for Miss Margaret and to tell her all about it, but Margaret’s indisposition increased, and a week had passed before she could sit up in her room and take any interest in affairs outside it.
Elinor and her mother nursed her with the greatest affection and concern. Every day a messenger came from the Park bringing fruit, flowers and inquiries, and every day Walter Carey rode over from Newton for the same purpose. Elinor, though she did not always remember to give Margaret messages from Mrs. Jennings and Sir John, never failed to inform her of Walter’s visits, and it was not long before Margaret became aware that her sister had formed plans and hopes for her, which were to terminate in her becoming the future Lady Carey of Newton Hall.
She was gradually becoming stronger, but was not considered well enough to read, or to bear anyone reading aloud to her. Her mind was consequently unoccupied, and all the hopes and fears and longings she had hardly kept at bay now overwhelmed her.
Compared with Walter, of whom so much was known, how little she knew of this man who occupied her thoughts. She had seen him only four times, and hardly as many hours had been spent in his society. He came of “low people,” said Sir John. Walter was the only son of a baronet. His profession was precarious and arduous. Walter’s position was one of ease, and would be one of wealth. “The hardships of a naval officer’s wife,” said Mrs. Palmer. The beauty and comfort of Newton Hall again came to her mind. “No stability of character,” Elinor had said; but what did she or Mamma or anyone else know about that? “I will come back. You will wait,” he had said—and with that she saw again his grave face, and, try as she might, she could not displace it with Walter’s good-humoured smile. She must see him again before she could decide. If he disappointed her—were not what she remembered—she might turn to Walter; but, at the thought, she felt again the old hope and fear and longing with which her thoughts began. Over and over again, round and round with the persistence of a feverish brain, and the monotony of a tired one, until she imagined she would be glad if she could think that she need never see either of these men again as long as she lived.
A week had passed in restless questionings and decisions. She was sitting in her room and hoping that the long-deferred call from Mrs. Jennings would be deferred still longer when she heard that lady’s voice in the hall. Her mother was out walking, and her sister was in charge. Mrs. Jennings had endeared herself to Elinor in past days, and was always sure of more indulgence from her than from others of the family, and Margaret had little doubt that the visitor would be brought upstairs before long.
Soon she could hear snatches of their conversation as they ascended the staircase.
“You could have knocked me down with a feather, Mrs. Ferrars. Indeed, I can hardly believe it yet. Lady Middleton, too, is surprised beyond measure. What your sister will say I do not know! It is the sort of thing that could not have been foreseen, nor prevented, or we would all have acted very differently. She should never have had your sister’s part at all in my opinion.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Jennings came in, a look of such extreme melancholy on her round, rosy face as made it exceedingly difficult for Margaret to avoid laughing at so incongruous an expression. It was evident, however, that something real, or at least real to her visitor, was causing the trouble, and Margaret quickly assumed a look of sympathy as she held out her hand.
It was taken in both of Mrs. Jennings, and almost in tears she cried:
“Oh, my poor dear! Do not you be sorry for me, my love! Be sorry for yourself! I can hardly bear to tell you, after all the teasings and jokings I have done, but your beau is to marry some one else, and how he can choose so beneath him when he might have had you is more than I can understand.”
Margaret’s look of bewilderment brought her sister to her help.
“Mrs. Jennings has come to tell us of Mr. Atherton’s engagement,” Elinor said quickly. “A source of congratulations to us all, dear Mrs. Jennings, believe me. The vicarage needs a mistress and Miss Fairfield will be a most agreeable neighbour to my mother and sister when she becomes Mrs. Atherton.”
The relief sent the blood to Margaret’s cheeks and the smile to her lips. Mrs. Jennings could not now imagine her to be otherwise than pleasantly affected by the news, and, as soon as this was understood and believed, the story could be unfolded with all the enjoyment proper to the recital.
“It seems he first noticed her at the picnic, so I say it is another marriage to the credit of Barton Park, for you must have seen, my dears, that Sir John is for ever planning to bring young people together, and let them have a chance to make it up between themselves. Well, then, it all began at the picnic, and then it went on at the rehearsals. There they were behind the same bush all the time, every rehearsal, and she so sweet and willing, and ready to do every one’s bidding. Then off you all went to Newton, and it seems he passed some of the day with her and the children, and you may be sure it was her he was thinking of and not the children. I hope they may have some little ones of their own, for I am sure they both know how to manage them, which is more than my daughter Middleton does—but it’s early days to think of that. Then, in the evening he schemed to get a dance with her when she was playing for the ball. He says you helped him there and indeed he is very grateful to all who have brought them together. And over head and ears in love he is—I will say that for him—and it is to his credit too, for she hasn’t a penny piece, but he goes on about her as if she had a hundred thousand pounds. All the time I thought him wanting to marry you; I never thought him such a pretty-behaved fellow as he is, though my daughter Middleton liked him more before this happened she says. However, that’s neither here nor there, for Miss Fairfield likes him enough for ten, and that’s all that matters to him.”