“The baby, William, is but a few months; Fanny has taken him with her.”
“Well-a-day, was that prudent? And yet I can sympathise; she would not wish to be parted from her lastborn. And the other?”
‘The little girl is three; she remains at Mansfield; if you are well enough, another day, and would care for it, I could bring her to visit you. Her name is Mary. She is an excellent little thing, with a great look of both her parents—”
Susan paused, her heart wrung with pity, for at this point she observed Miss Crawford slip a cambric handkerchief out of her reticule and unaffectedly, though inconspicuously, touch away a couple of tears from her eyes.—They were indubitably tears; Susan had seen them sparkle on her dark lashes. And when, after a moment, she spoke, her voice was somewhat hoarsened.
“Mary? Fanny and Edmund called their daughter Mary?”
Susan hesitated. It had not occurred to her hitherto that there might be any connection between Mary Crawford and the naming of Fanny’s little girl. Moreover, even now, she could not have positively vouched for there being such a connection; in fact—if the truth were told—it seemed to her in the highest degree improbable. Much likelier was it that the child had been named after yet another sister in the Price family, coming between Susan and Betsey in age, who had died at the age of seven. She too had been named Mary, an endearing little creature of whom Fanny, before she left Portsmouth for Mansfield, had been particularly fond.—Yet perhaps there had been an ambiguity—perhaps Edmund had some say in the naming? In any case there would be no object in rudely disabusing, dashing down the invalid’s grateful, touched, spontaneous impulse of affection; surely such sentiments must be raising and doing her good? A faint colour had come into her face, she was not quite so waxen pale as when Susan first entered the room.
“The little girl was christened Mary Frances; the Frances is after my mother.” Susan contented herself with saying.
“I shall be enchanted to meet her; you must bring her very soon. Already I feel as if I were her godmother. Now inform me as to the rest of the family: Lady Bertram, I collect, is still the same—dreamy, good-natured, never troubling to exert herself for anybody by so much as the shift of a finger, am I right?”
Susan smiled. “Yes; my aunt does not change.”
“And you, I am persuaded, care for her with the same ineffable sweetness and patience that, seen in Fanny, when that duty was hers, caused my brother to fall head over heels in love with her.”
“Oh no,” said Susan seriously, “I am by no means so patient as Fanny; indeed there are many occasions, with my aunt or with my cousin Julia, when I am very close to losing my self-restraint.”
“And yet you seldom do. Ha! Now I can see Fanny in you; at first I did not detect the likeness; you are taller, more striking in looks and colour; but now I do. You are Fanny, but a more forceful Fanny. And, to tell truth, from what I recall of Lady Bertram, if you were occasionally to stamp and scream and throw her embroidery frame out of the window, you would retain my entire sympathy and give her no more than her desert.”
“Oh no! Poor lady! I am often very sorry for her. Her life is so inexpressibly tedious.”
“She made it so herself,” retorted Mary Crawford. “As we all do. She has made her bed and must lie upon it—and hers is a more comfortable bed than many.—But you spoke of Julia—how is she? She married that ranting man, I recall—Yates; does she rub along with him tolerably well?”
“So I believe. They seem to spend as little time as possible in one another’s company; he is much occupied with sport or fishing, and Julia comes over to Mansfield as often as she is able. They have her sister-in-law, Lord Arncliffe’s youngest daughter, living with them.”
“Charlotte Yates; a detestable girl; I remember encountering her in London,” said Mary Crawford instantly. “And I can tell from your expression that you have an equal detestation of Julia, but are too good-hearted, or too circumspect, to reveal it. You need not be afraid, though! I am no betrayer of secrets; you may look on me, if you will, as your mother-confessor.”
She smiled at Susan, who thought in astonishment, Why, how could I have considered her to be plain? She is quite beautiful!
“And Tom? What of him? He is Sir Thomas, now. How does he support the honour? With some trouble, I would surmise; he will never be the man his father was. He will never have Sir Thomas’s principles or abilities. Poor dull Tom, his mind distracted between his horses and his gambling debts.”
To Susan’s own surprise she heard herself replying, “Tom is finding it hard at first, ma’am; suddenly to become head of the family, with all the cares and responsibilities that state incurs, cannot in course be easy or comfortable, and so he is learning. Tom has been used to lead such a carefree life that the many burdens chafe him sorely and he takes them, perhaps, with undue seriousness; also he sincerely misses and mourns my uncle. Yet I believe that in time he may become as upright and conscientious a landowner as Sir Thomas. The will is there, if not the experience.”
Mary Crawford eyed her narrowly. “He has a sincere and unprejudiced advocate in his cousin Susan, I can see; or perhaps you are prejudiced? Perhaps you entertain for him a warmer sentiment than mere cousinly regard?”
“No indeed!” cried Susan hastily. “You greatly mistake there, I assure you! To tell the truth, Tom and I are usually at loggerheads; I was the little cousin Sue for too long to be acceptable to him now as a companion whose opinion on anything can be worth heeding.”
“Aha! And so he tramples on you and sets you at naught. I can remember, all too well, how often Fanny was used to receive such treatment, and how indignant it made me on her behalf.—So Cousin Tom is a blockhead, and no doubt he will marry Charlotte Yates?”
“Oh, I hope not! I cannot bear to think of my poor aunt Bertram reduced to such companionship. Charlotte would use her so disagreeably, I am certain.”
“How altruistic you are,” Mary said, laughing. “You think only of your aunt. But what of yourself, in such circumstances?”
“Oh, I could not remain; I am quite sure she would never wish me to continue a member of her household. In such an event, I must remove to the Parsonage, where I could always be sure of a welcome from Fanny; only then, without me, I am afraid my poor aunt would fare hardly. But, in truth—although I know that Julia wishes the match—I fancy that Tom has other plans in view. He has shown interest in a Miss Harley—”
“Louisa? I believe I recall her,” said Miss Crawford, who appeared to have an encyclopaedic memory. “An orphan of fair-sized fortune, parents defunct, who lives at Gresham Hill with some cousins named Maddox?”
“Yes, that is she.”
“She was but sixteen when I came to Mansfield before—never stopped talking or laughing—a pleasant girl enough, not stupid, but a rattle. Charming looks, I concede: hair and skin fair and soft as an infant’s, besides a pair of ingenuous blue eyes.—Yes, she would suit Tom Bertram well enough, and, I daresay, use his mother more kindly than Julia’s candidate.—So much for Tom, then, we have settled his fortune. And what of yourself, my dear?”
“Of myself?”
“Come, come! Let us have no assumed coyness. You need not take on that demure air with me. Do not be telling me that, with your looks, and your advantages, and the background of Mansfield, you yet lack a suitor?”
“I am afraid that is the case,” Susan was obliged to admit. “The life we lead here is so quiet, so retired—My aunt never going into society—”
“Monstrous! Outrageous tyranny! I ought to summon my brother at once, and instruct him to call in half a dozen bachelor friends. And yet,” said Mary Crawford with a sigh, abandoning her sportive tone, “I do not know, after all, why I should be urging you into the arms of the male sex. They have brought me little enough pleasure or comfort; and, from what I can see of the lives of my friends, matrimony is a state to be shunned, rather than
sought.”
Susan at this could not help but recall the decidedly opposing views of Mrs. Osborne, so recently uttered. She murmured that lady’s name.
“Mrs. Osborne? Ah, but she is a saint! Lucky the man who captured her affections—he could hardly avoid becoming a saint likewise. And by the bye, that reminds me—does she not have a bachelor brother? Who is, no doubt, as delightful as his sister? Ha, you look conscious! Well, I will not tease; but I confess I have a great curiosity to meet this Frank Wadham; I hope he will soon come to pay me a pastoral visit. You might drop a hint.—But now, my dear Susan, now that we have become such confidential friends, I wish you to tell me everything, every foolish detail, every daily triviality concerning the lives and happinesses of our dear Fanny and Edmund. Do not be thinking it will distress me—” twinkling away another tear—“it is what I am come for. It is the breath of life. To hear about them, about their virtues and unselfishness, will do me more good than anything else in the world.”
***
When Susan left the White House, at the end of a two hours’ visit, she felt an inclination to walk slowly, not to retrace her way across the park at her usual rapid speed, for she had so much to ponder, to sigh over, to feel, to recall, of Miss Crawford’s look, manner, observations, and expressions, that half a day, even a whole day, would hardly be sufficient to absorb all the crowded impressions gained in the course of the conversation.
To begin with, she could not avoid the inference that Miss Crawford was gravely ill. Her emaciation, her dry cracked lips, her frailty—above all, her whole demeanour, that of one thirstily, feverishly endeavouring to secure a moiety of nourishment from life before it might be too late—all these things suggested that her state admitted of little hope; that she herself entertained none. She never said: “When I see Fanny and Edmund, when they come back, I shall do such-and-such—” she did not delude herself. She had accepted the harsh truth that she must manage to subsist on Susan’s reports of Fanny and Edmund; that the living realities must not be depended upon.
I will go to visit her every day that I can manage, Susan resolved then. I do not care a straw what Tom says, or what Julia thinks. I will contrive to see her as often as possible; and I am sure Mrs. Osborne will approve, and will help in making arrangements for Aunt Bertram.
The next consideration must be to write a letter to Fanny.
“You will be writing soon to your sister?” Mary Crawford had said wistfully as Susan rose to take her departure. “You will give her—and Edmund—my love, my dear love? You will explain that at present I find myself too weak to write—such debility makes me excessively impatient, when I remember the long, intimate, nonsensical scrawls I used to be dashing off to Fanny all the time—which she, I dare swear, hardly read through, dismissed as trivial, frivolous stuff; yet writing to her always did me good; I felt I had access to a fountain of value, of integrity, even if it seemed to have little effect upon me. Yes, the mere process of writing to her used to winnow out my thoughts and separate the chaff from the good grain. There! You see how the very thought of Fanny inculcates in me, a city girl born and bred, poetical and pastoral images!”
Writing to Fanny, then, must be an immediate, if painful task; depicting the gravity of Mary Crawford’s condition, and urging a speedy reply. Susan sighed, thinking of the period of time which must elapse before that reply could be received. As she walked, her fingers fairly itched for the pen; she was impatient to commence without delay.
But, on arrival at the house she discovered that, for the time being, withdrawal to her private sanctuary in the East Room must reluctantly be postponed; since, besides Mrs. Osborne, good-naturedly sitting with Lady Bertram and instructing her in the mysteries of carpet-work, other callers had arrived: Julia and Miss Yates were there, as well as Mrs. Maddox from Gresham Hill and her niece Miss Harley.
Observing all this company, Susan gave swift instructions to Baddeley, and a collation of cold meat, fruit, and cake was soon laid out on the large table for the refreshment of the party; also a message was despatched to Tom, reported to be inspecting his plantations at no great distance.—He returned after the visitors had been a short time assembled round the table; Susan could not help imagining Miss Crawford’s ironic eye and satirical comments on the subsequent behaviour of the party.
Susan’s own entrance, of course, had been acknowledged by Mrs. Yates and Charlotte with the barest cool indifference; the hint of a curtsey, a half nod, was considered quite sufficient; and it was plain that the pair had been even less delighted to encounter Mrs. Maddox and Miss Harley; paying little heed to the ladies from Gresham Hill, Julia and her sister-in-law sat perfectly silent, or conversed with one another in low voices. Their ill-mannered silence, however, was concealed by the conversation of Mrs. Osborne, who, easy, cheerful, and well-bred, had been conducting a conversation about the beauties of the country with Mrs. Maddox and her niece. And Miss Harley, as always, talked enough for three; a good-humoured, exuberant, pretty girl, she smiled at all she saw, felt delight at all she experienced, and her chat bubbled out like water from a spring.
“Such delicious lambs on the way here—I do believe, Lady Bertram, that the Mansfield lambs are the prettiest in the whole country. Their amusing capers had me laughing all the way—did they not, Aunt Catherine? Their long ears and long legs and little black faces are so bewitching, I do not see how anybody can ever have the heart to eat spring lamb—and yet, to be sure, spring lamb with mint sauce is so very good: Lord! what a great plateful I had last Sunday when it was served at my aunt’s table. I fear I must be the most amazingly inconsistent creature in the whole of Northamptonshire—” laughing at her own folly—“but tell me, Lady Bertram, how does Pug go on? How old is he now? Ten? Good heaven, that is an age, indeed. He does not shew it; he looks very well. You remember me, do you not, you dear old Pug? Hark! how he snores at me, that means he likes me, does it not, Lady Bertram?’’
“I do not know, my dear; in truth, he snores at everybody. It is his way of speaking, you know.”
“Oh, I am quite sure he likes me”—stroking his nose; “I love him far better than my cousins’ pointers, which are always underfoot, barking their heads off and muddying one’s skirts; he is a dear, good old Pug, sitting like a graven image of the sopha, quiet and snoring, and his face is so delightfully black and wrinkled; I declare I love it better than anything else in the world, and if I were an artist I should paint a picture of it.”
“And do you excel at drawing, Miss Harley?” kindly inquired Mrs. Osborne.
“Lord, bless you, no, ma’am! I could not draw so much as a chair without the lines being crooked. Charles and Frederick were for ever laughing at me when we were all children. Oh! how thankful I was to leave the schoolroom and know that I must never have my knuckles rapped again by cross old Miss Marchmont for blotting my copy-book and forgetting my recitation and ruling my lines askew. I believe one of the greatest pleasures of growing up is the knowledge that one need never be educated again. Do not you agree, Miss Price? Did you not detest being educated?”
“Oh, above everything,” Susan told her, feeling, as she always did, quite charmed and disarmed by Miss Harley’s inconsequentiality.
“But if you girls are not to be educated,” said Mrs. Osborne, laughing heartily, “how in the world will you ever be able to instruct your own little ones when you have them?”
“Oh, very easily, ma’am; by hiring cross old Miss Marchmont to rap their knuckles and make them miserable. She is still about in the village at Gresham, you know, and I daresay will be happy to come and persecute them with her umbrella, and her snuff-box, and her tin of brimstone and treacle lozenges. How my heart used to sink as she stept into the schoolroom every morning, and how I used to cry, and pretend to have the stomach-ache or the tooth-ache, just to get out of lessons; I would sooner by far be put to bed with a poultice, or a dose of Gregory’s Mixture; how many times have I not decei
ved dear Aunt Catherine here, who was always so good-natured and believed my tales of unspeakable agony. Ah! here now is Sir Thomas Bertram, come in from his coverts; tell me, Sir Thomas, do you not truly think that education is the most obnoxious process in the whole world?”
It seemed plain that Miss Harley’s pearly teeth, her artless enjoyment of the company she was in, the ingenuousness with which she smiled up at Tom out of the corners of her long blue eyes, and the infantine fairness of her hair and complexion, could have persuaded him into agreement with any statement she made, however preposterous; he stood smiling down at her, displaying the most unfeigned admiration; and this irritated his sister and her companion so much that, very shortly after, they rose to take their leave, plainly hoping that Mrs. Maddox would follow their example.
“What, Julia, going already?” said Tom carelessly. “Surely you have but just now come?—Well, give my regards to Yates. When do we see him? He has not been to Mansfield this age. By the bye—” recollecting, “what about our party to view the Roman ruins? Have you mentioned that to Yates? Does he care to join us? And have you discussed the matter with your brother, Mrs. Osborne? Has he decided on which day he can best spare us for the excursion?”
Julia was excessively annoyed with her brother. To be fixing the arrangements for the excursion had, indeed, been her prime object in coming over to Mansfield; but she especially did not wish Miss Harley to be of the party, and had been proposing to go away without speaking of the project, rather than have it mentioned; for now, exactly what she did not wish to happen came about.
“What, are you to view some ruins?” cried out Louisa. “How charming! If there is one thing in the world that I doat upon rather than another, it is a ruin! I do hope, dear Sir Thomas, that I and my cousins and Aunt Catherine may be permitted to be of the party? Do you not doat on ruins, Miss Price? There is something so deliciously desolate about them.”
“It is my painful task to inform you, Miss Harley,” said Tom, “that no ruins are to be seen as yet; but still, with the help of Mr. Wadham, who is a great expert on Roman affairs, we may hope to unearth some.”