‘I heard you were in town,’ said she. ‘I wanted to see you. Let us talk over this sad business. What can equal the fol y of our two relations?’
Fol y? I thought. To cal such an act nothing but fol y, when it would be the ruin of Maria, was incomprehensible to me. And to blame Maria as much as Crawford. I could not answer, but I believe my looks told her what I thought.
Her face fel . With a graver look and voice she said, ‘I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister’s expense.’ I felt relieved. For a moment I thought she had been about to do this very thing. But then she went on. ‘But it was foolish of Henry to be drawn on by a woman he never cared for, particularly as it wil lose him the woman he adores. But oh!’ she broke out, ‘how foolish has been Maria, in sacrificing such a situation as she had, married to Mr. Rushworth, protected by his name, with his fortune at her disposal and such a house! The best in Wimpole Street! To give up al that, when a little discretion could have kept the whole thing from Rushworth and his odious mother. And for her to run off with Henry, under the idea of being real y loved by him, when he had long ago made his indifference clear,’ she said, shaking her head.
I could not believe it. She did not feel distress at the act, merely at its discovery. And what was she suggesting? That instead of behaving as they ought, Maria and Crawford should have been more cautious, more duplicitous, and gone on with their affair regardless? And even worse, saying that her brother had never cared for my sister; that he had ruined her on nothing more than a whim; that he had cast her into a life where, disowned by her husband, she would endure shame and misery, to satisfy nothing more than his vanity and selfish desire?
I was horrified. For the woman I loved to speak in such a way, regarding the whole thing as nothing more than an indiscretion, and lamenting, not Maria’s reputation, but her house in Wimpole Street! I began to wonder who this woman was, standing in front of me. I thought I knew her, but standing there, looking at her, I realized I did not know her at al . I was so shocked I could not speak. But Mary had no such difficulty, each word making me more and more horrified at her cal ousness. There was no reluctance to speak of it, no shame, only worldliness and vice.
‘If anyone is to blame, it is Rushworth,’ she said. ‘His want of common discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the whole time of Maria’s being at Twickenham. And then Maria!
Putting herself in the power of a servant by leaving a lover’s note where it could be seen!
Foolish, foolish girl. Without that, they might never have been detected. It was only this that brought things to extremity, and obliged Henry to give up every dearer plan in order to fly with Maria.’
I was like a man stunned, but worse was to come. She began to talk of Fanny, regret ing, as wel she might, the loss of such a friend and sister.
‘He has thrown away such a woman as he wil never see again. She would have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever,’ she said. ‘Fanny, with al her sweetness and goodness, and al her quiet charm.’
There at least she spoke wisely, and I was almost relenting towards her when she broke the spel forever by bursting out, ‘Why would not she have him? It is al her fault. Simple girl! I shal never forgive her. Had she accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object. He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would have al ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.’
I could not believe it. How could she say such things? To say, to even think, that it was Fanny’s fault! Fanny, who had no faults, unless it was an inability to appreciate her own worth. Fanny, whose goodness was a shining light that brightened the lives of al who met her. And to say, further, that Crawford should have had a standing flirtation with Maria, and this when he was married to Fanny! How could anyone think of using Fanny so il ? Fanny, who had a right to the greatest happiness the world could of er? Whose tender heart could never stand such il treatment?
The charm was broken. My eyes were opened, and I had only to regret what a fool I had been.
‘I cannot believe what I am hearing,’ I said. ‘I knew you to have been corrupted by your uncle’s influence, and by the influence of those around you here in town, but this . . . Perhaps it is better for me that you have spoken in this way, since it leaves me so little to regret; though I wish I did not have to think of you as being like this, corrupted and vitiated, lost to al sense and reason save that of expediency.’
She did not listen. She was too busy fol owing her own thoughts.
‘We must persuade Henry to marry her,’ said she; ‘and what with honor, and the certainty of having shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must give up. I do not think that even he could now hope to succeed with one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty. My influence, which is not smal , shal al go that way; and when once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a certain degree. In some circles, we know, she wil never be admitted, but with good dinners, and large parties, there wil always be those who wil be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candor on those points than formerly. What I advise is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If, by any officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry’s protection, there wil be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to his honor and compassion, and it may al end wel ; but if he gets his daughter away, it wil be destroying the chief hold.’
When at last I could command my voice, I said, ‘I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of mind into this house as I have done, that anything could occur to make me suffer more, but you have been inflicting deeper wounds on me in almost every sentence.’
She looked surprised.
‘I have often been aware of some differences in our opinions, but I never suspected something like this, that you would make light of your brother’s crime — for crime I cal it to seduce a woman and take her away from her home — and al the time with no feelings for her. And to make light of wounding one of the gentlest creatures on earth. And then to suggest we promote a marriage that would lead to nothing but misery, for I would not ever want to see my sister married to such a man as your brother — the man I now know him to be. Inconstant, deceitful, immoral, everything that a man should not be. I see now that I have never understood you; that I have loved an image of you, and not you yourself.’
She did not know how to look. At first she was astonished, then she turned red, and I saw a mixture of many feelings, chief amongst them anger. I saw a great, though short struggle, half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she could.
‘A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last sermon?’ she said sarcastical y.
‘At this rate you wil soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.’
But her words could no longer wound me. I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her wel , and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves, to the lessons of affliction. And then I left the room.
I had gone a few steps when I heard the door open behind me.
‘Mr. Bertram,’ said she. I looked back. ‘Mr. Bertram,’ said she, with a smile; but it was a smile il suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite me in order to subdue me. I resisted; it was easy; and I walked on.
As I walke
d out of the house, I was shocked to see that our interview had lasted only twenty-five minutes. Such a short time to change so much!
I met my father soon afterwards, and though I did not tel him of everything that had passed he guessed it had not been good, for he suggested to me that I should write to Fanny and tel her to ready herself, then go to Portsmouth and take her home.
My gloom began to lift at the thought of seeing Fanny again, but I worried about leaving my father. He reassured me that he could manage alone, and so I sent my let er, tel ing Fanny I would be in Portsmouth tomorrow for the purpose of taking her back to Mansfield Park. I said also, at my father’s request, that she should invite her sister Susan for a few months, for he was sure Fanny would like to have some young person with her, someone who could help counteract her sorrow at the blow that had befal en her.
Wednesday 10 May
I arrived in Portsmouth early, by the mail, too worried to be tired by my lack of sleep, and by eight o’clock I was in Fanny’s house. I was shown into the parlor, and then Mrs. Price left me in order to attend to her household affairs whilst the servant cal ed Fanny down. She came in, and I strode across the room, reaching her in two strides and taking her hands in mine, scarcely able to speak for happiness and relief at being with her again.
‘My Fanny — my only comfort now,’ I said, momentarily overcome. I col ected myself, for what were my griefs compared to hers?
I asked if she had had breakfast, and when she would be ready. She told me that half an hour would do it, so I ordered the carriage and then took a walk round the ramparts. As I felt the stiff sea breeze, I thought of the moment I had taken Fanny’s hands, and I wondered at the strangeness of it, that her fingers were so tiny and yet they could put such strength into my own; for I had felt it flowing into me, strength and courage, when I had touched her, sustaining me in my misery, and I hoped that my touch had strengthened her, too. I was not long on the ramparts and was soon back at the house. The carriage arrived, and we were off.
I longed to talk to Fanny, but her sister’s presence kept me silent. The things I had to say were not for the ears of a fourteen-year-old girl. I tried to talk of indifferent subjects, but I could not make the effort for long, and soon fel into silence again.
And now we have stopped at an inn in Oxford for the night, but I am chafing at the delay. I want to get home, to Mansfield Park. I want to take Fanny to my mother. Thursday 11 May
I had a chance to speak to Fanny a little this morning, for as we were standing by the fire waiting for the carriage, Susan went over to the window to watch a large family leaving the inn. Fanny looked so pale and drawn that I took her hand and said, ‘No wonder — you must feel it
— you must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could desert you!’ I could not believe Crawford could have been so vicious. But then my own pains rose up inside me, and I longed for the soothing comfort of Fanny’s voice, and the softness of her words. ‘But yours — your regard was new compared with — Fanny, think of me!’ I burst out. She found words for me, even in her own troubles, and then our journey began. I tried to set Susan at ease, and comfort Fanny, but my own anxieties were too much for me and after awhile, sunk in gloom, I closed my eyes, unable to bear the sight of burgeoning summer, which contrasted so heart-breakingly with the winter in my mind.
We reached Mansfield Park in good time, wel before dinner, and my mother ran from the drawing-room to meet us. Fal ing on Fanny’s neck, she said, ‘Dear Fanny! Now I shal be comfortable.’
And so it is. Fanny brings comfort with her wherever she goes. We went inside. My aunt, sitting in the drawing-room, did not look up. The recent events had stupefied her. I soon discovered that she felt it more than al of us, for she had always been very attached to Maria and Maria’s marriage had been of her making. For her to find it had ended in such a way had hit her very hard.
Tom was sitting on the sofa, looking less il than previously, but stil far from wel . He had had a setback when he had learnt about Maria and Julia, but he had ral ied and was gaining strength again.
Susan was remembered at last, and received by my mother with a kiss and quiet kindness. Susan, good soul, was so grown up for fourteen, and provided of such a store of her own happiness, that she took no notice of my aunt’s repulsive looks, for my aunt saw her as an intruder at such a time, and returned Mama’s greetings with sense and good cheer. We ate dinner in silence, and we were al of us glad, I think, to plead tiredness, and so go early to bed.
Friday 12 May
A letter has come from my father. He has not yet been able to find Maria, but he has reason to believe that Julia is now married. His letter was ful of his feelings: that, under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome al iance; but to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion, placed Julia’s feelings in a most unfavorable light. He cal ed it a bad thing, done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though he said that Julia was more pardonable than Maria, for fol y was more pardonable than vice, he thought the step she had taken would, in al probability, lead to a conclusion like Maria’s: a marriage conducted in haste, with a man as unprincipled as Yates, was likely to lead to disaster; particularly as he believed Yates belonged to a wild set. I comforted my mother as best I could, and Fanny joined me in the task. I drew Fanny aside this evening, and gave her an opportunity to talk of her feelings but her heart was too ful . She said nothing of Crawford, but only that she hoped he and Maria would soon be found, and that Yates might turn out to be less wild than we feared, and that Julia and he might be happy.
Sunday 14 May
A wet Sunday. The weather brought out al the gloom of my thoughts and this evening, unable to bear it any longer, I confided everything in Fanny. I had hoped to spare her; to say no more than she already knew, that there had been a break between Mary and myself; but I was drawn on by her kindness. I told her of the disastrous interview with Mary; that I had at last realized Mary’s true nature; that I had been foolish to be so blind.
‘If only she could have met with better people,’ I said. ‘The Frasers did her no good.’
‘She met with you,’ said Fanny quietly. ‘She had an example before her, if she chose to see it.’
‘You are such a comfort to me,’ I said, squeezing her smal fingers grateful y in my own. ‘But I can stil not believe she was so very bad. If she had fal en into good hands earlier . . . Perhaps if I had tried harder . . .’
She said nothing, but she soon left me, appearing again a few minutes later, bringing something with her. She put it into my hands. It was a letter to her from Mary.
‘I cannot read this,’ I said. ‘It is addressed to you.’
‘I cannot watch you blaming yourself any longer, and so I give you leave to read it,’ she said.
‘Indeed, I think you must.’
My eyes went to it almost against my wil . It was dated some time before, shortly after Tom fel il , and as I read it I felt a coldness creeping over me, chil ing me to the bone. From what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought lit le of his il ness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him; but now it is confidently asserted that he is real y in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced I shal be to hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine young man cut of in the flower of his days is most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas wil feel it dreadful y. I real y am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honor, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young man! If he is to die, there wil be two poor young men
less in the world; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence could fal into no hands more deserving of them. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blot ed out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains. It wil be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real af ection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tel me the real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether ‘Sir Edmund’ would not do more good with al the Bertram property than any other possible ‘Sir.’
I felt sick. To hear Mary speak of my ordination as a foolish precipitation, a stain that could be hidden with varnish and gilding, instead of seeing it as my cal ing, an inalienable part of me, and one that needed no excusing was abhorrent to me. And what was this varnish and gilding to be?
A baronetcy. A baronetcy I was to gain by the death of my brother; by the death of Tom. Tom, who had been a part of my life always; Tom, who had ridden beside me, wrestled with me, swum with me; Tom who had laughed at me, plagued me and teased me. And Mary wished him dead.
Not only that, but she said Fanny wished it, too; that Fanny was smiling and looking cunning at the idea of it. Fanny, who could not look cunning if she tried; Fanny, who would be incapable of wishing evil on anyone; Fanny, who loved my brother for al the kindnesses he had shown her. I handed Fanny back the letter, feeling as though al life had been sucked out of me.
‘If not for you, Fanny, I do not know how I would bear it. And yet you, yourself, are suf ering. Crawford played you false.’
‘No, I am not suffering,’ she said softly, folding the letter and letting it rest on her lap, where her goodness seemed to undo its malice, rendering it harmless.
I looked at her in confusion, wondering what she meant, for it must hurt her to know that her lover had betrayed her.
Edmund Bertram's Diary Page 20