by Joan Aiken
At last, much to her relief, she detected, in the distance, what looked tolerably like John Yates’s claret-and-green chaise and pair; but, to her perplexity, it seemed to be headed in the wrong direction, going along a road that led sideways around the hill, instead of directly approaching the cross-roads. Susan attempted to attract the driver’s attention by calling; she even climbed up on top of the milestone and waved her parasol, but apparently to no avail; the claret-and-green equipage proceeded on its way, out of sight beyond a patch of oak coppice.
Troubled by this, Susan wondered what she ought to do. Should she rejoin the vanguard of the party and inform them of this deviation by some of its members? Or remain here, trusting that the Yateses would presently become aware of their error, and turn back?
While she still hesitated, she observed, and guessed, that the latter possibility had come to pass: the claret-coloured coach was again to be seen, proceeding in the contrary direction. And, after another fifteen minutes, it came slowly towards her up the hill and drew to a halt by the cross.
“Hollo!” called John Yates, who was indeed the driver. “You are there, Miss Price? But you are all alone. Where are the rest of the party?”
In a moment the heads of Julia and Charlotte appeared protruding from the carriage windows. Both looked flushed and out of spirits. And from the inside of the carriage came the angry cries of the little boys, who appeared to be fighting a battle.
“So here you are, all the time!” exclaimed Julia, with a decidedly irritable note in her voice. “Well, you look cool and comfortable enough, to be sure—while we have been driving hither and thither over the hot countryside. Where are the others gone?”
“They went on along the track to Easton copse,” replied Susan. “I remained here to give you the information. The lane is not wide enough for a carriage.”
But here she was interrupted by John Yates, who cried out, “Pho, pho, what nonsense! Of course it is wide enough for any but a looby. It is wide enough for any man who can drive tolerably well. I will guarantee to get along there without so much as a single scratch on a panel.”
His wife here coolly but absolutely disagreeing with his statement kindled him into an attempt at proving his boast; but he almost at once arrived at such an exceedingly narrow corner that he was obliged to dismount from the box and back his horses, slowly and with the greatest possible difficulty, all the way back to the milestone, where there was a gatepost to which they might be tethered. While this difficult manoeuvre was in process, Julia, growing impatient, had scrambled out of the carriage and over a stile in the hedgerow, exclaiming,
“Come, children! Come, Charlotte! As the lane is blocked by John’s stupidity, we may as well walk alongside in the meadow. Besides, it is far pleasanter to walk upon grass; the lane is so dusty.”
Charlotte and the two little boys followed, and were lost to view on the far side of the hedge.
Susan was wiser than to be reminding Mrs. Yates that the field in question was a hayfield, and that the farmer who hoped to reap the crop would not be best pleased to find it trampled over with footprints; she held her peace, and, as she had not been invited to join the Yates ladies, waited until Mr. Yates had made fast his carriage, and then quietly walked down the lane. John Yates, at a rapid stride, soon caught her up.
“Hey-day, Miss Price! Why in the world did Cousin Tom inform my wife that the quickest way to Stanby cross-roads was by Thornton Parva and Norman Bank? It was no such thing—took us four good miles out of our way. And then Julia would have it that we must go round the hill, not up it—she said Tom had told her so distinctly—we should be wandering yet, if we had not met a shepherd, who redirected us.”
Susan, who had heard Tom and Julia disputing over the route, was well aware that he had told his sister no such thing; but there was no sense in adding fuel to the fire of everybody’s annoyance. She replied peaceably that they must have mistaken one another’s meaning.
“But it is of no consequence, as you are here now.”
Farther along the lane they were rejoined by Julia and Charlotte and the little boys. One of the latter had fallen and cut his knee; and Miss Yates was in a state of angry distress and expostulation as she had been stung by nettles in the hedge, very badly, she said, on her ankles and on her arms.
“You should look for a dock-leaf and apply it to the stings,” kindly advised Susan, beginning to feel a little sorry for poor Miss Yates, who was obviously quite unaccustomed to country walking. She had on a pair of blue nankeen half-boots, very elegant, but wholly unsuited to a rough scrambling excursion. Also, Susan suspected that they were too tight and pinched her feet. Her cheeks were flushed, her elaborate feathered hat was askew and her hair coming out of curl; she looked almost ready to cry with irritation and discomfort. But at Susan’s friendly suggestion she turned away haughtily without being at the trouble of replying, as if the latter’s proximity merely added to her numerous vexations.
“Pray, Charlotte, do not be making such a melodrama about a few nettle-stings,” exclaimed Julia unsympathetically. “Little Johnny has been stung too, but he does not cry, do you, my angel?”
However as at this moment little Johnny scratched himself, attempting to pick a wild-rose, his roars quite drowned her question. Since Miss Yates continued to complain that her stings burned her like fire, Julia hastily pulled out a vinaigrette and applied a few drops to the afflicted parts of her children and sister-in-law.
They walked on along the lane, the children grumbling at the distance, Charlotte in continual uneasiness at the dust from the dry ground which was soiling her beautiful boots; every few yards she would stop and attempt to clean them on tufts of grass at the roadside.
Susan, who could now see some of the others in the distance, would have liked to walk on ahead, instead of proceeding at such a dawdling pace, but did not think it would be polite to do so.
At last they reached the little group who were waiting by a gate, in the shade of a fine thorn tree whose boughs were clustered thick with cascades of blossom now tarnished to a creamy gold hue.
Greetings were exchanged between Mrs. Maddox, the Stanleys, and the Yates ladies. Julia glanced discontentedly round for the men, then asked, “Where is Miss Harley? Was she not able to come?” in a livelier tone than she had yet employed.
“She walked on with Mr. Wadham into the grove, where the rest of the gentlemen are gone; we remained here in this delightful spot in order to direct you.” replied Mrs. Maddox. “Shall we follow them now?”
Between the gateway and Easton copse, the small oak coppice which was their destination, lay a widish green meadow, grazed by a few far-distant sheep and cattle. Its surface was studded here and there by small boulders, and in the middle of the pasture a slight declivity, marked by tufts of reeds, suggested the presence of a bog or spring concealed in the grass.
Having passed through the gate the seven assorted persons and two children proceeded at varying speeds across the field; John Yates, followed by his two sons, whom he completely ignored, strode rapidly ahead, skirted the marshy area, and was soon out of sight among the trees.
Susan, Mrs. Maddox, and the Stanley sisters walked together after Yates in a loose group, taking care to avoid the marsh, the Stanleys pausing to pick cowslips, admire kingcups, and exclaim at the warmth of the day and the purple orchises to be seen here and there.
Mrs. Maddox engaged Susan in conversation with great civility, expressing her gratification that Miss Price had been able to form one of the party, as she knew it was not easy for the latter to leave Lady Bertram; but she was extremely pleased to have this chance of making Susan’s better acquaintance.—What can she possibly mean by that? was Susan’s first alarmed thought, but she responded with warmth, and soon felt herself to be on very comfortable terms with the older lady.
Behind them she could hear Charlotte talking in a tone of whining complaint to Julia.
“Very peculiar treatment, to leave the ladies to make their own way across a field—not at all what she was accustomed to—gnats and midges were biting her to distraction—where in the world were the gentlemen—did not at all like the look of those shocking great bulls, or oxen, or whatever the beasts were over there—rocks everywhere, one was in continual danger of turning one’s ankle—odiously warm day—not in the very least what she had been expecting.”
Susan could hear Julia’s reply.
“My dear Charlotte, I fully enter into some of your feelings. It was very wrong—very ungentlemanly and discourteous for the men to abandon us in this abrupt manner.—But we can guess whom we have to thank for that. Mansfield is far, very far, these days, from being governed by the spirit that prevailed when I was a child. No: I fear it is now ruled by inconsideration, impropriety, and vulgar pushfulness. These things are bad, very bad. Those who do not in any way deserve it, claim attention, while real merit goes neglected.—No, I regret that Mansfield is shockingly far from being what it once was. The place may be there, the stones and bricks, the trees and meadows, but any feeling of calm and good breeding has wholly vanished.—However I have not lost all hope of its redemption, and restoration to what it once was; all that it lacks is a right-thinking guide, a mentor, a leader in taste and propriety, to correct the many faults, and give a different direction to the notions and manners of those who live there.”
Miss Yates sniffed, and paused to disengage a prickle from her skirts, but made no audible reply.
During this speech, Susan quickened her pace a little, in order to pass out of earshot. She observed that Mrs. Maddox did likewise, and the latter gave her a quick, friendly smile, as if she, too, having heard the preceding remarks, deplored them but felt they deserved no comment.
They had just arrived at the copse, and were moving with gratitude into the welcome shade of the trees, when they heard a slight shriek from behind them, and turned with surprise and no little alarm to see what might be amiss.
They observed that one of the distant bullocks had begun moving, in what seemed an aimless and desultory manner, for it still cropped the grass as it walked, in the direction of Julia and Miss Yates. The latter, apparently panic-stricken at this approach, had run away hastily, and without taking sufficient care to look where she was going, in the opposite direction. The result being, that she had run herself into the little bog that surrounded the spring, and was now up above her ankles in soft, oozy mud, from which she was finding it almost impossible to extricate herself.
“Help! Help!” she called. “Help me—quickly!”
For the sight of the clamouring, gesticulating lady had aroused the curiosity of all the grazing cattle, and they began to move in the direction of Miss Yates, while the latter continued to scream and to struggle.
Julia stood still, making no attempt to go to the aid of her sister-in-law, and looking very impatient, as if she found the whole affair almost expressly designed to add to the provocations of the day.
“They will do you no harm, Charlotte, if you will only keep quiet and not shriek so!” she called irritably.
Susan eagerly summoned Mr. Wadham, whom she could see not far away among the trees, and he returned at a run, followed by William, who soon drove back the wandering cattle. The two men, with Susan, went to Miss Yates’s assistance, and, by stepping gingerly on tussocks of reeds, were able to approach her, take her hands, and pull her out of the mire. One of her nankeen half-boots came off, but was rescued by Susan. All of the party became somewhat muddy during the rescue.
Limping and lamenting, Miss Yates was escorted into the grove, where she was sat down upon a fallen trunk, and restoratives administered by Mrs. Maddox, who carried smelling salts, and Miss Stanley, who had a flask of cologne in her ridicule. Miss Maria, the younger Stanley sister, shyly proffered a comfit, but this was coldly declined.
“What she needs is her lunch,” said Mrs. Maddox.
The rest of the men now appeared on foot, severally, having tethered their horses on the far side of the grove. Tom eyed Miss Yates with ill-concealed impatience, and inquired,
“What is to do?”
He might well ask. The two little boys, having equipped themselves with sticks, were striking each other lustily and yelling at the top of their lungs, whether from pain or animosity it would be hard to judge.
“Should we not have the collation now?” suggested Susan. “I am sure a little food and drink will do everybody good.”
“Collation? With all my heart,” said Tom. “But here is no food to be seen. Baddeley does not appear to have arrived yet.”
“How very singular! I told him that the cart, with the lunch, was to be here well before noon, and it is now after one o’clock.”
“But this is not Stanby Wood,” objected Julia.
“Stanby Wood? Who said that it was? Of course it is not Stanby Wood!” cried Tom. “Stanby Wood is three miles away across country.”
“Well, that was where Baddeley was to take the collation, and so I told him, only last evening.”
“My dear Julia—” exclaimed her brother, visibly reining in his feelings with a violent effort of restraint, “may I ask why in the world you did that?”
“Because I had understood—from you—that that was where we were to assemble—”
“I never said any such thing; or anything approaching it—”
While brother and sister thus accused one another, the rest of the party’s thoughts dwelt sadly on the distant luncheon. Susan, in particular, recalling the care with which she and Mrs. Whittemore had planned the repast, began to feel that a malevolent star must be presiding over the excursion, and that the best thing they could all do was to go home.
The little boys set up a noisy and lugubrious clamour, on hearing that they were not to have anything to eat, and their mother made no attempt to hush them.
At this moment William suddenly gave the thoughts of the party a different turn by exclaiming,
“I had meant to make this announcement when we were all sitting down comfortably to luncheon, and cracking a bottle of wine, but as the luncheon and the wine are not to be had, I have no patience to be waiting any longer. Friends, congratulate me! I am the happiest man in Northamptonshire—for aught I know, in all of England! I have Mrs. Maddox’s permission to tell you that Miss Harley has done me the honour to say that she will be my wife!”
It was then noticed that he was standing by Miss Harley and holding her hand, and that she, flushed pink as a wild campion, was looking very pretty and exceedingly happy.
A chorus of exclamation and congratulation followed on William’s speech. Six of those present were unfeignedly happy, and loudly expressed their interest, pleasure, and satisfaction; Julia uttered a cool minimum of insincerities; Miss Yates, still sitting and sniffing on her fallen tree, said nothing at all, but darted one needle-like glance at Tom from the corners of her small sharp eyes. Tom, Susan saw with pain, looked utterly confounded, as if his world had fallen about his ears. He did, however, summon up enough resolution and self-command to bestow the proper compliments upon Miss Harley and his cousin William, though with how little heart to do so, perhaps only Susan guessed.
It was now generally agreed that, since the gentlemen had pronounced the wood an unsuitable site for excavation, being too damp and rocky, the party had best return to their carriages, and such as chose might then proceed to Stanby Wood, five miles by road, where they could possibly hope to find Baddeley with the refreshments. Susan suspected that the Yates family, from their general aspect, might prefer to return home directly, without taking any further part in the historical research.
Mr. Wadham did his best to conceal his disappointment in the turn that matters had taken. Walking back with Susan up the lane, he confessed to her that, privately, he had always considered the land around the cross-roads to be a likelier site th
an the wood for archaeological investigation—“These roads almost certainly being Roman, you see, Miss Price, and such a highly probable spot for a way-station or villa. But I fear that, just at present, the party are in no mood for spending any more time here.”
Susan felt great sympathy with his thwarted aspirations; it did seem hard that he, the originator of the whole plan, should find his wishes and intentions entirely set aside.
“That is always the difficulty,” she said, “with a large party; people in a group tend to be so unmanageable. If only the land around the cross-roads were of a more interesting nature, some of the party might wish to spend a little time here—”
It could not be denied, however, that the four fields surrounding the cross-roads were of a most prosaic and uninteresting character, being all ploughed over and grown with crops of young barley and oats respectively. The crops came close up to the hedgerows, the banks of the lanes were too steep to be sat on, and most of the party, by then, felt a decided inclination to quit the spot and go in search of rest and refreshment.
As they reached their conveyances, moreover, Mr. Noakes, the tenant who farmed the land, came riding up on his cob, curious to discover what a lot of grand folks’ carriages were doing stopped by Stanby Stone Cross.
When informed by Tom that they were considering an excavation for Roman antiquities among his oats and barley, he became so very surly and contumacious that Tom flew into a passion, and told him that he was lucky not to be given notice on the spot.
Susan could not help sympathising with the farmer, who saw the fruit of his labours in danger from what must seem to him idle curiosity; it was on the tip of her tongue to dispute with Tom, but remembering the severe disappointment he had just undergone, she forebore; meeting Mr. Wadham’s eye, instead, she gave him an imploring glance, and he, by a judicious mixture of irrelevant argument, and concurrence with both parties, succeeded in calming them down, pointing out that after the harvest, when there was nothing on the fields but stubble, would be an equally good time to investigate.
