Persuasion
“They are up stairs with my sister: they will be down in a few moments,
I dare say,” had been Anne’s reply, in all the confusion that was
natural; and if the child had not called her to come and do something
for him, she would have been out of the room the next moment, and
released Captain Wentworth as well as herself.
He continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, “I
hope the little boy is better,” was silent.
She was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy
her patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very
great satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little
vestibule. She hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the
house; but it proved to be one much less calculated for making matters
easy—Charles Hayter, probably not at all better pleased by the sight of
Captain Wentworth than Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of Anne.
She only attempted to say, “How do you do? Will you not sit down? The
others will be here presently.”
Captain Wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not
ill-disposed for conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to
his attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the
newspaper; and Captain Wentworth returned to his window.
Another minute brought another addition. The younger boy, a remarkable
stout, forward child, of two years old, having got the door opened for
him by some one without, made his determined appearance among them, and
went straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his
claim to anything good that might be giving away.
There being nothing to eat, he could only have some play; and as his
aunt would not let him tease his sick brother, he began to fasten
himself upon her, as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was
about Charles, she could not shake him off. She spoke to him, ordered,
entreated, and insisted in vain. Once she did contrive to push him
away, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon her back
again directly.
“Walter,” said she, “get down this moment. You are extremely
troublesome. I am very angry with you.”
“Walter,” cried Charles Hayter, “why do you not do as you are bid? Do
not you hear your aunt speak? Come to me, Walter, come to cousin
Charles.”
But not a bit did Walter stir.
In another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being
released from him; some one was taking him from her, though he had bent
down her head so much, that his little sturdy hands were unfastened
from around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she knew
that Captain Wentworth had done it.
Her sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless. She
could not even thank him. She could only hang over little Charles, with
most disordered feelings. His kindness in stepping forward to her
relief, the manner, the silence in which it had passed, the little
particulars of the circumstance, with the conviction soon forced on her
by the noise he was studiously making with the child, that he meant to
avoid hearing her thanks, and rather sought to testify that her
conversation was the last of his wants, produced such a confusion of
varying, but very painful agitation, as she could not recover from,
till enabled by the entrance of Mary and the Miss Musgroves to make
over her little patient to their cares, and leave the room. She could
not stay. It might have been an opportunity of watching the loves and
jealousies of the four—they were now altogether; but she could stay for
none of it. It was evident that Charles Hayter was not well inclined
towards Captain Wentworth. She had a strong impression of his having
said, in a vext tone of voice, after Captain Wentworth’s interference,
“You ought to have minded _me_, Walter; I told you not to teaze your
aunt;” and could comprehend his regretting that Captain Wentworth
should do what he ought to have done himself. But neither Charles
Hayter’s feelings, nor anybody’s feelings, could interest her, till she
had a little better arranged her own. She was ashamed of herself, quite
ashamed of being so nervous, so overcome by such a trifle; but so it
was, and it required a long application of solitude and reflection to
recover her.
CHAPTER X.
Other opportunities of making her observations could not fail to occur.
Anne had soon been in company with all the four together often enough
to have an opinion, though too wise to acknowledge as much at home,
where she knew it would have satisfied neither husband nor wife; for
while she considered Louisa to be rather the favourite, she could not
but think, as far as she might dare to judge from memory and
experience, that Captain Wentworth was not in love with either. They
were more in love with him; yet there it was not love. It was a little
fever of admiration; but it might, probably must, end in love with
some. Charles Hayter seemed aware of being slighted, and yet Henrietta
had sometimes the air of being divided between them. Anne longed for
the power of representing to them all what they were about, and of
pointing out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to. She
did not attribute guile to any. It was the highest satisfaction to her
to believe Captain Wentworth not in the least aware of the pain he was
occasioning. There was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in his manner. He
had, probably, never heard, and never thought of any claims of Charles
Hayter. He was only wrong in accepting the attentions (for accepting
must be the word) of two young women at once.
After a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed to quit the
field. Three days had passed without his coming once to Uppercross; a
most decided change. He had even refused one regular invitation to
dinner; and having been found on the occasion by Mr Musgrove with some
large books before him, Mr and Mrs Musgrove were sure all could not be
right, and talked, with grave faces, of his studying himself to death.
It was Mary’s hope and belief that he had received a positive dismissal
from Henrietta, and her husband lived under the constant dependence of
seeing him to-morrow. Anne could only feel that Charles Hayter was
wise.
One morning, about this time Charles Musgrove and Captain Wentworth
being gone a-shooting together, as the sisters in the Cottage were
sitting quietly at work, they were visited at the window by the sisters
from the Mansion-house.
It was a very fine November day, and the Miss Musgroves came through
the little grounds, and stopped for no other purpose than to say, that
they were going to take a _long_ walk, and, therefore, concluded Mary
could not like to go with them; and when Mary immediately replied, with
some jealousy at not being supposed a good walker, “Oh, yes, I should
like to join you very much, I am very fond of a long walk;” Anne felt
persuaded, by the looks of the two girls, that it was precisely what
they did not wish, and admired again the sort of necessity which the
family habits seemed to produce, of everything being to be
communicated, and everything being to be done together, however
undesired and inconvenient. She tried to dissuade Mary from going, but
in vain; and that being the case, thought it best to accept the Miss
Musgroves’ much more cordial invitation to herself to go likewise, as
she might be useful in turning back with her sister, and lessening the
interference in any plan of their own.
“I cannot imagine why they should suppose I should not like a long
walk,” said Mary, as she went up stairs. “Everybody is always supposing
that I am not a good walker; and yet they would not have been pleased,
if we had refused to join them. When people come in this manner on
purpose to ask us, how can one say no?”
Just as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned. They had taken
out a young dog, who had spoilt their sport, and sent them back early.
Their time and strength, and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready
for this walk, and they entered into it with pleasure. Could Anne have
foreseen such a junction, she would have staid at home; but, from some
feelings of interest and curiosity, she fancied now that it was too
late to retract, and the whole six set forward together in the
direction chosen by the Miss Musgroves, who evidently considered the
walk as under their guidance.
Anne’s object was, not to be in the way of anybody; and where the
narrow paths across the fields made many separations necessary, to keep
with her brother and sister. Her _pleasure_ in the walk must arise from
the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year
upon the tawny leaves, and withered hedges, and from repeating to
herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of
autumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind
of taste and tenderness, that season which had drawn from every poet,
worthy of being read, some attempt at description, or some lines of
feeling. She occupied her mind as much as possible in such like musings
and quotations; but it was not possible, that when within reach of
Captain Wentworth’s conversation with either of the Miss Musgroves, she
should not try to hear it; yet she caught little very remarkable. It
was mere lively chat, such as any young persons, on an intimate
footing, might fall into. He was more engaged with Louisa than with
Henrietta. Louisa certainly put more forward for his notice than her
sister. This distinction appeared to increase, and there was one speech
of Louisa’s which struck her. After one of the many praises of the day,
which were continually bursting forth, Captain Wentworth added:—
“What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister! They meant to
take a long drive this morning; perhaps we may hail them from some of
these hills. They talked of coming into this side of the country. I
wonder whereabouts they will upset to-day. Oh! it does happen very
often, I assure you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as
lieve be tossed out as not.”
“Ah! You make the most of it, I know,” cried Louisa, “but if it were
really so, I should do just the same in her place. If I loved a man, as
she loves the Admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should ever
separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven
safely by anybody else.”
It was spoken with enthusiasm.
“Had you?” cried he, catching the same tone; “I honour you!” And there
was silence between them for a little while.
Anne could not immediately fall into a quotation again. The sweet
scenes of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet,
fraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining
happiness, and the images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone
together, blessed her memory. She roused herself to say, as they struck
by order into another path, “Is not this one of the ways to Winthrop?”
But nobody heard, or, at least, nobody answered her.
Winthrop, however, or its environs—for young men are, sometimes to be
met with, strolling about near home—was their destination; and after
another half mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where the
ploughs at work, and the fresh made path spoke the farmer counteracting
the sweets of poetical despondence, and meaning to have spring again,
they gained the summit of the most considerable hill, which parted
Uppercross and Winthrop, and soon commanded a full view of the latter,
at the foot of the hill on the other side.
Winthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched before
them; an indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns
and buildings of a farm-yard.
Mary exclaimed, “Bless me! here is Winthrop. I declare I had no idea!
Well now, I think we had better turn back; I am excessively tired.”