by Joan Aiken
They had little time to talk together and exchange more than the first “Do you remember—?” and “When did we last—?” and “How is so-and-so?” before it was time to dress for dinner. Julia, her husband, and Miss Yates were of the party at that meal; John Yates addressed William very cordially, and the men were soon deep in discussion of horses, fishing, hunting, and William’s accounts of scrambling parties ashore in the Peninsula; the visiting ladies treated William with cool incivility; as a simple captain must expect to be used who has only his pay and expectations of prize money; but he, in his enjoyment of being once more at Mansfield, and happy expectations of the forthcoming ball, did not observe this. The Wadhams were also there, and by them William was much better treated; Susan had the happiness of introducing him as “My brother, Captain Price”; Mrs. Osborne could talk to him of ships and naval acquaintances, and her bright eye and friendly smile denoted her approval of the new arrival; her brother, too, found topics in common, for William’s ship had called, in the past, at ports in the East Indies with which Mr. Wadham was familiar. Susan, listening, glowed with pleasure at the lively intercourse that was going forward between her friends.
The half-hour after the meal was a period of ennui and impatience; Lady Bertram yawned in the drawing-room, Mrs. Yates and Charlotte talked together in low tones, and Mrs. Osborne exchanged unhappy impressions with Susan as to Mary Crawford’s condition. Julia also took this opportunity of intimating her astonishment and disgust at Tom’s idea that she might be willing to play the piano for the dancers, and her total lack of intention to do so.
“What! Thump away for an hour together while others dance? I thank you, no! It is a great pity that you never learned, Cousin Susan,” with a sneer. “But I suppose pianos are hard to come by in Portsmouth.”
Susan agreed calmly that this was the case, and added, “Moreover our house was so very small that I do not know where a piano could have been put, except, perhaps, in the cellar,” which won her an amused glance from Mrs. Osborne.
The latter said, “I fear I cannot supply your deficiency, Miss Price, for a similar reason; none of my husband’s cabins was ever large enough to admit of the introduction of a piano, or even a spinnet; consequently, after my marriage, all my musical propensities, which before that time were very strong, I assure you, had a sad stopper clapped on them, from which they never recovered.”
Charlotte and Julia thereupon talked very perseveringly of music, and of composers and compositions and the importance of music in society and how essential it was for ladies to practise daily and keep up their proficiency, whether upon the pianoforte or the harp.
“What of your brother’s friend, Miss Price?” inquired Mrs. Osborne. “Was I not given to understand that he traveled into Northamptonshire with a friend? Is he not to be of the party this evening?”
“Captain Sarton, yes; he did travel down with William and is putting up at the George. He wished not to be a trouble to our household, as he is a stranger to my aunt and cousin. But my cousin Tom very kindly sent a note to the George, inviting him to join us.”
Sounds of carriages arriving and the peal of the doorbell now happily interrupted the conversation; guests began to assemble round the great fire in the saloon, and the scrape of a violin made Susan’s feet tingle with the wish to be dancing.
A set was formed; Tom gave his sister and her friend mortal offence by leading off with Miss Harley instead of with Charlotte Yates; but the latter was invited to dance by the kindly Mr. Wadham, who talked to her very agreeably, so that her mortification was not visible to the public eye; William invited Susan to be his partner; Julia danced with one of the Maddox brothers, and the other Maddox danced with Miss Maria Stanley, one of two very good-humoured sensible sisters who lived not far away, were always available and happy to be invited on this sort of occasion, and occupied themselves, no one knew how, for the rest of the time.
Some while after the dancing had begun, Susan noticed an unfamiliar young man who had come into the room and was standing by Lady Bertram and Mrs. Osborne, who sat in the chaperon’s chairs at the fire side, and apparently talking to them very entertainingly, to judge from their expressions. When the first dance was concluded, William introduced him to Susan; this, as she had inferred, was Captain Sarton, a thin dark man, not handsome, but with a look of great intelligence.—She had considerable pleasure in talking to him, soon found that they shared an interest in plays, poetry, and essays; in fine, she did not know when she had been so well entertained. Captain Sarton, as a consequence of a bullet in the kneecap sustained during his last engagement, was a trifle lame: “I should be happy to have the honour of dancing with you, Miss Price, but must warn you that I can do little more than shuffle about.”
“That will be quite sufficient for me,” said Susan, smiling, “but are you sure you ought to be doing so?”
“Come to a ball and not dance? Impossible!”
Meanwhile William, greatly taken with the cheerful rosy looks of Miss Harley, had invited her to be his partner for the next two dances; and as they were beside Susan and Captain Sarton in the set, Susan had a chance of overhearing their conversation, which was entirely about animals.
“Do you not doat upon dogs, Captain Price? I have an old spaniel that I believe is the nicest creature in the world—I love him beyond anything, he has such sad eyes and such drooping ears and such a faithful disposition; I do, truly, think that dogs are far superior to human beings, do you not agree?”
William did agree, and related the history of a pointer bitch whom he had smuggled on board the Latona when he was lieutenant aboard that ship, and what hunting parties she had graced on the Spanish coast and of her great fidelity and sagacity.
“And then there are horses and pigs—I am very partial to pigs, oh, there is such a charming family of little grunters just now on my uncle’s farm—their snouts turn up so, and their tails are so curly, and their little eyelashes are so white that there is no resisting them! And calves, I adore calves, do not you? With their sweet breath, and soft noses, and liquid eyes. And ducks—I had a duck of my own for the longest time, she laid an egg every two days and had such a smile, but she was taken, in the end, by a fox, and I cried my eyes out for a week. Have you ever had a duck, Captain Price?”
No, William had not, but he had owned a parrot, purchased in the West Indies, and told Miss Harley many stories of its sayings and antics, at which she laughed immensely.
“Have you been up the Nile, Captain Price? Have you seen a crocodile? Or a camel? Or an elephant?”
Yes, William had seen all three, and was happy to describe these creatures.
Captain Sarton, smiling at Susan as he brought her a glass of orgeat when their two dances were concluded, said, “My friend William Price cannot fail to please. He is the most good-natured, sympathetic creature in the world. You are lucky to be in possession of such a brother, Miss Price.”
“I am indeed. My sole complaint is that his profession must render our meetings so very infrequent.”
“Then the pleasure must be all the greater when they do occur. I believe I should not be keeping you from his company.”
Susan, however, had duties to Lady Bertram and the elder Miss Stanley; she had to see to the refreshment of the fiddler and his mate; and she had to pacify Julia, outraged because Tom had not yet once danced with Miss Yates.
“Now he is partnering one of those stupid Stanley girls, the younger; and what is that to the purpose? She has not a hundred a year of her own, and has never been beyond Kettering in her life.”
“With such disadvantages, surely she deserves some recompense?” said Susan.
She found it hard to sympathise with Julia’s displeasure; however, as the evening drew on, she found herself growing a trifle anxious about William, Miss Harley, and Tom; the two former seemed to have so very much to say to one another, they stood chattering for ever in corners, or s
at talking their heads off on sophas, while William fanned Louisa with her own fan and she, pink-cheeked with pleasure, told him more and more about her tabby cat, her canary-bird, her mare Dulcinea, her black Leghorn hens, and a pet lamb she had once owned, which had died. William, it seemed, could not hear enough of her conversation. And Tom, it was plain, found the rapid progress of their friendship startling, and not particularly agreeable.
Lady Bertram presently declared her intention of retiring to bed, and Susan, returned from escorting her up to her maid Chapman, was surprised to discover the violin and flute replaced by the sound of the pianoforte, played with no little skill and spirit.—The executant proved to be Captain Sarton, who, smiling at Susan as he continued to play, said,
“This is a rare treat for me, Miss Price. Do not stop me! I told those two poor fellows they should rest for a while; since I can see that some of the party here intend to keep it up dancing into the small hours.”
“If you are sure—? It is a great kindness.”
“No kindness at all,” he replied, rattling away at a great rate, “but my craftiness in contriving to give my knee a rest while acquiring the merit of being self-sacrificing, public-spirited, and a very good sort of fellow.”
Mr. Wadham invited Susan to dance, and performed his part in a very graceful and gentlemanlike manner. His eyes told her that he admired her dress and the gold net which, as Miss Crawford had prophesied, did, on her dark hair, give her the look of an Italian lady in a painting.—She preferred his silent admiration to the more commonplace civilities of the Maddox brothers.
It was growing late when a slight commotion near the door attracted Susan’s attention; she saw a servant go in quest of Captain Sarton, saw Sarton leave the instrument and walk into the hall; then she saw him return, apparently in search of somebody, and his eye lit upon herself. Guessing that she must be needed, she crossed the room to where he stood and asked if he were in need of assistance.
“It is not for myself, ma’am, but another gentleman, upon what seems to be an errand of mercy.”
“An errand of mercy?”
Captain Sarton, who, perhaps from his experience in the service, had the ability to explain a complicated situation with brevity, said,
“While I was dining at the George this evening I encountered an old acquaintance from London days, also putting up there; and he, it seems, is come to solicit my aid in procuring a back-rest, which apparently was earlier promised for his sister, who is an invalid. She is in some pain, otherwise he would not dream of troubling you at so late an hour. His name is Crawford. He waits outside in the hall.”
Chapter 8
Susan could not have told herself exactly what she expected Mr. Henry Crawford to look like, but nonetheless he was a surprise to her. She had expected him, perhaps, to look older. Also, despite his sister’s devoted attachment to him, and the vindication of his character by Mrs. Osborne, tales of his wickedness had, it seemed, lodged in her mind; she might have been imagining something in the nature of a Corsair, with black moustaches, or a scar, and flashing eyes, and a general air of dissipation and debauchery.—Her recollections from their previous and only meeting, when she had been only fourteen, were too scanty to form any basis for reasonable conjecture.
What she found, in place of her imaginings, was a very gentlemanlike, dark-haired man, not handsome, with a considerable air of weariness; dressed in stylish, if travel-stained, garments, clean-shaven, pale, and a good deal preoccupied. His look lightened at sight of her, however, and on Captain Sarton’s introduction he said,
“Miss Price: I am a monster of inconsideration to be calling you out of a party at such an hour. But from my sister’s report of you I have every confidence in your generosity—”
More than a little embarrassed, Susan stammered something in the way of greeting and apology, and then despatched a servant in search of the back-rest.
“I am thoroughly ashamed, Mr. Crawford, that it was not sent down before. Indeed, I was confident that it had been—but this has been a day of sixes and sevens, and I ought to have inquired to make certain that my order had been obeyed. It will be here in a moment. Have you a conveyance to carry it?”
“Thank you, yes, I drove up in my curricle. I am putting up at the George, in order not to over-strain my sister’s house-hold.—Please tell me, Miss Price,” he went on in a low, agitated voice, too absorbed in his own thoughts to stand upon ceremony, “tell me, how do you find my sister’s state of health? I was never more shocked than when I saw her this evening; she seems so changed, even since I left her here. I looked to find her greatly improved from benefit of the country air; but the reverse appears to be the case. Do you not think so?”
Susan hesitated. She felt that somebody ought to tell the unfortunate Mr. Crawford what was probably the true state of the matter; but doubted if she, a mere bystander, unknown entirely to him, only recently acquainted with his sister, were the fit and proper person for such a disclosure. And this evening, surely, was far from being a suitable occasion: he, weary after a journey, distressed at first sight of his sister, and she in such pain; and the incongruous sound of music and dancing coming from the saloon; it was all very bad; morning would be a better time for what had to be said, and somebody else, preferably Mr. Wadham, or Mrs. Osborne, or the doctor, a more appropriate person to say it.
These feelings turning over in her mind, she attempted to prepare a short formal statement, some meaningless civility, to the effect that more time must be given, that the sudden warmth of the season, the dry weather, the over-excitement due to expectation of seeing her brother, his late arrival—that all these things must be taken into account, that progress in such cases must be expected to come slowly, etc., etc.
Intending to utter these platitudes, she looked into Mr. Crawford’s eyes—he was not a tall man, they were much of a height—and found herself unable to give voice to any of them.
She said, “Your sister is happy, Mr. Crawford; of that you may be certain. I do believe she is as happy now as she has ever been. Is not that strange? How should I, a person who never knew her until a few weeks ago, be so sure of this? And yet I am. Now that you are come, I believe she has little more to wish for.”
And still they were exchanging that long, candid look; as if they had been knowing each other for the past ten years.
The servant came hurrying with the canvas back-rest, and Mrs. Whittemore’s apologies: there had been so much to do, with the rout cakes and the lemonade—she was sorry, very sorry indeed, that the leaner for the lady at the White House had been overlooked.
At the same moment, Tom walked out of the ballroom. He had left the dancers intending to go in search of William and Miss Harley, who, instead of dancing, had strayed out on to the terrace; Mrs. Maddox, Miss Harley’s aunt, had invoked his good offices to find Louisa and persuade her to obey the dictates of propriety and return indoors—or, at the very least, to put on a shawl. At sight of the group in the hall, Tom checked, with a look of astonishment, then came slowly towards them.
“Crawford? I am not mistaken? How very—I am so—That is to say, how do you do?”
He seemed exceedingly embarrassed at the encounter. Susan could hardly be surprised. She herself felt that she had coloured to the roots of her hair. One of the several different mortifying thoughts that came to distress her was: How angry Tom will be that I should have dared to lend out the appliances of Mansfield to a stranger—and such an unwelcome stranger—without first asking his leave. She felt ready to sink through the floor.
But Tom, though he frowned at the back-rest in a puzzled manner, as it was carrying out to Mr. Crawford’s curricle, did not seem inclined to make any inquiries about it.
The latter said quickly, “My dear Bertram. I have already been offering my apologies to Miss Price. I now do the same to you. It is infamous—unforgivable—to be breaking in on you at this hour. My sister’s infi
rmity—the exigency of her condition—must be my excuse. I will now take my leave, and will do myself the honour of waiting on you at a more civilised hour tomorrow to reiterate my regrets.”
He was turning away, about to leave, when Tom, appearing to recall their former friendly relation, or his duties as a host, exclaimed, “Stay—will you not come in?—will you not join us? My sister Julia—”
His voice failed, he looked at Crawford as if, for once, he found himself wholly at a loss. The latter smiled briefly and said, “Your sister Julia would not be at all delighted to see me. No, I thank you; I am in haste to return to my sister.—But it was kind in you to issue the invitation. I will bid you good night.”
He stept quickly out through the open door and almost at once his horses could be heard departing at a rapid trot.
Julia chanced to pass through the hall at that moment, with a wrap on her arm.
“Was that the Miss Stanleys leaving?” she inquired.
Tom replied, “No, it was not any of the guests. It was Crawford, Henry Crawford.”
“Crawford? That odious man? What in the world was he doing here? Hoping to spunge an invitation, I presume.”
“No, he was not, Julia,” said Tom wearily. Just then he looked so perplexed and despondent that Susan could find it in her heart to feel sorry for him.
To Julia, who still looked her inquiry, Susan said, “Mr. Crawford came here in order to borrow that old canvas back-rest which Christopher Jackson once made for Tom when he had the fever. His—Miss Crawford—is in great pain, and we—I thought that it might render her more comfortable.”
At another time Julia might have seized on such an opportunity to expatiate on Susan’s thoughtless encouragement of encroaching interlopers, unscrupulous use of Mansfield property, self-assertion, sneaking secretive behaviour, and general untrustworthiness and presumption; but Julia was feeling fairly satisfied with the way the evening had gone. True, Tom had not led off the ball, as he ought, with Miss Yates; but from that moment on his pursuit of Miss Harley had received such a severe check, such a bafflement, that Julia’s own hopes now seemed in a much better way to be fulfilled. —And if William Price intended serious courtship of that ninny, Louisa Harley, they were welcome to each other! For Julia’s part, she doubted whether William had a thousand pounds to his name, and if he ever rose above captain—wholly lacking in high friends or influence as he was—it would be little short of a miracle.