Persuasion: The Wild and Wanton Edition Read online

  As soon as his gaze landed upon the sleeping boy and his former fiancé at the boy’s side, his feet skidded to a stop. The noise of his boots scuffing upon the floor brought her dark head up with an almost audible snap. Her eyes widened as she saw him, and her lips parted. Without permission, Frederick’s eyes narrowed in on the pretty pink flesh, which only grew more distracting as her abrupt nervousness at his presence manifested itself in a swift dart of her tongue across her bottom lip. The surprise of finding himself almost alone with Anne Elliot, deprived his manners of their usual composure: he started, and could only say, “I thought the Miss Musgroves had been here: Mrs. Musgrove told me I should find them here,” before he walked to the window to recollect himself, and feel how he ought to behave. Old habits died hard. His body traitorously reminded him of what he would have done eight years ago upon finding Anne alone in a room. With meticulous attention to detail, his memory flowed through the times he had pressed her up against a wall, desperately pushing into her body with his own. The stolen kisses he had sneaked from her when no one was around had consisted of a furious plunging of his tongue into her warm mouth and an exultation in each of her hearty moans.

  She spoke, interrupting his trip to the past quite effectively with a voice that wobbled. “They are up stairs with my sister: they will be down in a few moments, I dare say,” was Anne’s reply, in all the confusion that was natural; and if the child had not awakened and called her to come and do something for him, he suspected she would have been out of the room the next moment, and released Captain Wentworth as well as herself.

  He continued at the window, his breath fogging up the glass in a quicker cadence than it should have; 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 as the awkwardness in the room billowed like ever-quickening smoke, 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, who spared the Captain only one black look, soon put an end to his attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the newspaper; and, with a barely contained sigh, 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.

  He firmly placed Walter upon one hip and carried him over to the window where he had been keeping time since entering. A soft, low exchange occurred between the two of them, after which, Walter nodded his head exuberantly and looked quite contrite: his lower lip protruded further than the top, and his little eyes were swimming with tears when they found Anne’s across the room.

  “Sorry, Auntie,” the small child said in a tremulous voice. “I be a gentleman now. Promise.” His rs were softened w-sounds, and Anne’s heart hitched within her chest when Captain Wentworth looked down at Walter with a soft, approving smile.

  “Well done, sir,” the Captain said to the boy alone, though his deep bass carried to where Anne sat. “Now, what gentlemanly exploits shall we get up to?”

  The child shrugged shyly — an emotion Anne had never seen him exhibit.

  “Every man should know how to navigate with a compass, wouldn’t you say?” she offered quietly from her seat beside her sick nephew.

  Frederick’s eyes found hers, and the smile he still carried upon his handsome face from conversing with the child struck her through and through. His smile dimmed somewhat, but he nodded curtly just before turning back to Walter. “She is right, of course,” he said while lowering the boy to the ground with one hand and reaching into his coat pocket with the other to produce a shiny, brass compass — the same one he had carried upon his person always when he had been Anne’s. Frederick pulled the boy’s hand up, placed the disc of metal within his hand, and leaned over to instruct him in its uses.

  We would have made a good team, she thought as she looked upon them. And he would have made a breathtaking father.

  Her sensations on the discovery of her wayward thoughts made her perfectly speechless. She could not even thank him for the rescue. She could only hang over little Charles, with most disordered feelings. His kindness in stepping forward to her relief, the manner, the quiet 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; she was even more ashamed by the brief but desperate wish that she had conceived all of those years ago. But so it was, and it required a long application of solitude and reflection to recover her.

  Chapter 10

  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. When he had been in love with her, he had been unable to keep his eyes nor his hands to himself. He barely looked upon the young women. 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. She felt Frederick’s enthusiasm as a direct shot. He may as well have looked at her pointedly while honouring Louisa’s loyalty. 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.”

  Henrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no cousin Charles walking along any path, or leaning against any gate, was ready to do as Mary wished; but “No!” said Charles Musgrove, and “No, no!” cried Louisa more eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing the matter warmly.

  Charles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring his resolution of calling on his aunt, now that he was so near; and very evidently, though more fearfully, trying to induce his wife to go too. But this was one of the points on which the lady shewed her strength; and when he recommended the advantage of resting herself a quarter of an hour at Winthrop, as she felt so tired, she resolutely answered, “Oh! no, indeed! walking up that hill again would do her more harm than any sitting down could do her good;” and, in short, her look and manner declared, that go she would not.

  After a little succession of these sort of debates and consultations, it was settled between Charles and his two sisters, that he and Henrietta should just run down for a few minutes, to see their aunt and cousins, while the rest of the party waited for them at the top of the hill. Louisa seemed the principal arranger of the plan; and, as she went a little way with them, down the hill, still talking to Henrietta, Mary took the opportunity of looking scornfully around her, and saying to Captain Wentworth —

  “It is very unpleasant, having such connexions! But, I assure you, I have never been in the house above twice in my life.”

  She received no other answer, than an artificial, assentin
g smile, followed by a contemptuous glance, as he turned away, which Anne perfectly knew the meaning of.

  The brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheerful spot: Louisa returned; and Mary, finding a comfortable seat for herself on the step of a stile, was very well satisfied so long as the others all stood about her; but when Louisa drew Captain Wentworth away, to try for a gleaning of nuts in an adjoining hedge-row, and they were gone by degrees quite out of sight and sound, Mary was happy no longer; she quarrelled with her own seat, was sure Louisa had got a much better somewhere, and nothing could prevent her from going to look for a better also. Anne had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as she tried to sit by quietly while Mary fussed. She had a suspicion that Louisa had drawn Captain Wentworth away to engage him in some sort of physical activity that might cement their courtship. She studiously ignored her own thoughts and tried to focus on her sister. Mary turned through the same gate the pair had walked through, but could not see them. The sick feeling grew stronger as Anne found a nice seat for Mary, on a dry sunny bank, under the hedge-row, in which she had no doubt of their still being, in some spot or other. Mary sat down for a moment, but it would not do; she was sure Louisa had found a better seat somewhere else, and she would go on till she overtook her.

  Anne, really tired herself, was glad to sit down; and she very soon heard Captain Wentworth and Louisa in the hedge-row, behind her, as if making their way back along the rough, wild sort of channel, down the centre. Relief coursed through her at their casual tone of conversation that would have been very at odds with physical exertion of any kind. They were speaking as they drew near. Louisa’s voice was the first distinguished. She seemed to be in the middle of some eager speech. What Anne first heard was —