by Joan Aiken
“And doubtless you were a little fatigued at that time,” suggested Susan. “Your mind may have been less on the management of your horse, and more on the various evils and misadventures of the excursion.”
She was wishing to lead up, by degrees, to Miss Harley’s engagement; she thought it might be better for Tom to be speaking of it, not to let the wound bleed inwardly, and rankle, and poison him.
“Misadventures? Oh, ay, the collation went astray; that was thanks to Julia’s cursed interference, I take it?”
“Yes, she had instructed Baddeley to send the cart to Stanby Wood.”
“Perhaps that will teach her not to continually be meddling with matters at Mansfield. Let her govern her own household, and leave ours in peace. Julia is sometimes the outside of enough.”
Whole-heartedly though Susan agreed with this statement, she was not going to be disparaging Tom’s sister to him; she said,
“My brother William sent you his best and kindest regards. He was obliged to post up to London, you know, to the Admiralty; he was indeed sorry to be obliged to leave while you were laid up like this, and without bidding you goodbye.”
“Ay, he is an excellent chap; I am sorry, too, not to see the last of him. I hope he may come this way again. I wish him all the good in the world. He is certain to become an admiral, you know; I think very well of William.”
“He sent a message also,” said Susan hesitatingly, “that he hoped very much it was not due to any action of his—the news, you know, the declaration that he had just made, concerning Miss Harley and himself—he was somewhat distressed by the notion that your accident might have been caused by absence of mind, by your concern over that announcement—”
Tom looked puzzled for a moment, thinking this out; then his brow cleared, and he gave a shout of laughter. “Oh, now I follow you, cousin! William thought I might be eating my heart out over his being handfast to Louisa Harley! It is no such thing! You believed me to feel ill-used because William had stept in and beat me to the post. No, no, I do not make any fling at him at all. It was entirely my own fault for not making a push to secure her favours earlier; but, now that it has happened, I do not in the least regret it. Louisa is a very good sort of girl, and will make William an excellent wife. In fact they are well suited. He is a capital fellow and thoroughly deserves her. But for my part (thinking it over) I am not sorry. She is sweet-tempered, to be sure; but her thoughts do not go deep.”
Susan agreed gravely that this was so. Her heart felt immensely lightened.
Tom went on, “William’s engagement has been making me think that when I marry, I would wish to secure a woman who has more of real intelligence than Louisa Harley; somebody that one can be talking to, whose advice one can be asking without getting some frittering reply; a woman of good sound judgment like Mrs. Osborne—or Miss Crawford. That is a woman in a thousand, you know, Susan!”
“She is indeed.”
“I am very sorry, now, that I ever disparaged her,” Tom continued, sinking his voice. “She has been so good, so kind to me. Susan, she is an angel! Here I come, disrupting her household to such a degree—and had not even had the civility to pay her a call previously—and she had been so ill, too. But she has not breathed a word of reproach, not a murmur; she has been so kind, so unaffectedly, spontaneously kind. And not in a martyred, forgiving way, you know, that one can’t be tolerating; no, she can be very entertaining, wonderfully so! I do not wonder now that you have made such a friend of her. I have been wholly mistaken about her all this while, and I am very ready to admit it.”
Susan gazed at him in silence, almost overwhelmed by the completeness of his recantation.
“And Crawford—you know—is a very decent sort of man. I find it hard, I must say, to believe those tales about him and my sister Maria.”
Here Susan thought it her duty, since Tom was in such a conciliated mood, to disburden him of his errors of judgment due to the misinformation put about by Maria on this head; and to apprise him of the true story as she had it from Mrs. Osborne.—She did so, briefly and succinctly. Tom listened in silence, then said,
“That is just like Maria, you know. She was always spiteful, as a girl; I have known her, before, to tell tales of people that were not true, just to get her own back on them. I am very glad Crawford’s name is cleared. I have always had an inclination to like him.”
At this, Susan could not help blaming herself very heartily that she had not undeceived Tom sooner; but a more rational reflection soon showed her that in his previous state of mind it was highly improbable that he would have believed her.
He now reverted to Miss Crawford, and Susan had to listen to another paean of praise. She was so quick, so witty, so perceptive, had such depths, such strength of character, such understanding; she was so rare a creature, and beautiful, too; like a madonna, said Tom.
Giving patient ear to all this, Susan began to feel in herself a constriction of the heart. He loves her! was her thought. It is like Mr. Wadham all over again. After but two days in her company, he has come under her spell.
The conclusion could not be dismissed, and was easy to understand, since with so many of the eulogies that Tom was pouring out, Susan found herself in whole-hearted agreement. The conclusion was easy to understand, but not so easy to accept. She found that it gave her considerable pain. In Mr. Wadham’s case she had been able to employ detachment. Here, that was not so.
Endeavouring to compose her spirits, she listened as Tom went on.
“My brother Edmund was used to be in love with her, you know, before he married Fanny. At the time I wondered at it; I thought her lively, pleasant enough, but nothing out of the common. In looks, you know, she was not to be compared with my sisters Maria and Julia; or so I then thought. I did not then understand her rare quality. She is like one of those heroines out of Shakespeare, you know,” said Tom. “Portia, or Viola, one of those learned witty ones who can talk so well. Now, I wonder that Edmund did not make more of a push to secure her.—But of course there was all that cursed business about Maria and Crawford. It was a thousand pities. Still, Edmund married Fanny and did very well. And he would be too sober a fellow for Mary Crawford; she deserves a man with more spirit in him.”
“Tom,” said Susan gently—she felt her heart was almost breaking inside her as she spoke—“you are aware, are you not, that Miss Crawford is very, very gravely ill?”
Tom turned his eyes to hers. His hand lay on the coverlid; Susan took it and held it a moment.—She had never done such a thing before. Tom did not spurn her clasp; indeed he rather clung to her hand, as if he were beseeching her to make him some promise.
“She looks well enough,” said he gruffly. “She needs—she needs only rest, and to be taken out of herself, I daresay.”
“The doctor says—”
“Oh, the doctor! A doctor may not always perfectly understand such a case. Here has the doctor been shaking his head over my mother these twenty years, and I dare swear she will outlast us all.”
Susan did not say that Lady Bertram was an indolent, selfish, self-indulgent woman, always prepared to fancy herself ill in order to avoid exertion, when there was nothing the matter with her save a lack of mental resources.
“All I meant, Tom, was that you should remember her frail state of health, and not be persuading her to attempt more than she ought, not be tiring or over-straining her.”
“Of course I would do no such thing! I hope I am not such a boor as that.”
Shortly afterwards, Susan took her leave. She sat with Mary Crawford in the front parlour for a short time, and gave her a somewhat curtailed account of the picnic, to which her friend listened with sparkling eyes.
“And so your brother William has won the heiress! Charming. It is no more than he deserves. I am very happy for him, and they will have a well-stocked ménagerie on board his ship, of parrots, guinea-pigs, a
nd Barbary apes. And Miss Yates sank in the bog; that is just what one would wish for her. I am sorry that you were deprived of your luncheon. But I confess that I cannot be sorry about your cousin’s accident, since it has afforded me the opportunity of recommencing our acquaintance. He is greatly changed, Susan! I had remembered a rather thoughtless young man, wholly taken up with field sports and gambling, not a single serious nor an interesting idea in his head—but I find him much matured. He has more capacities, better parts than I had formerly believed. You were quite right in what you said to me about him; now I believe that he will, with time, turn into such a man as his father was. Mansfield will not lose by his stewardship.—I have a great idea of Mansfield, as you see, Susan,” said Miss Crawford, laughing. “It is not the place—nor the trees nor stones—but the spirit of right behaviour, right ideas, of what we owe to our neighbours, and they to us. That is what Mansfield stands for, to me.—But I can see that you are on tenterhooks to return to your troublesome aunt. Loyal, self-denying Susan! It is too bad that you have to spend so much time in such service. Let us hope, however, that Fate is preserving a plum for you to pull out of the pudding. There! Give me a kiss and be on your way. I need not ask for you to come again soon; so long as your cousin is under this roof I am assured of your daily visits.”
“You are assured of them without his presence,” said Susan, a little stung, and had another kiss blown at her as she walked out of the door.
Outside she found Henry Crawford just dismounting from his curricle. He immediately offered to drive her back across the park, an offer she was glad to accept, since she found herself, perhaps from the unwonted exertions of the previous days, more than commonly tired.
Henry, with true gentlemanly perception, seeing her somewhat absent and preoccupied, did not fatigue her with over-much conversation, though he did take pains to reassure her as to Tom’s condition; the inflammation, he said, would pass, he himself had suffered from just such a fever with a broken arm, but a few days had brought him complete recovery, and now he never thought of it; one arm was just as serviceable as the other, he could hardly recall which one had been broken. Tom would surely be back home in a few days, none the worse for his experience.—After which comfortable assertion, he allowed the conversation to die away into a friendly silence. They did not speak of Mary’s health, except for Susan’s once saying,
“I see you have brought your sister a harp. She must be very delighted with it. It is too bad that it stands in my cousin’s sick-room, and at present she is debarred from practising upon it.”
“Not wholly debarred,” he replied. “I understand that she has promised to play to your cousin so soon as he is equal to the experience, and he has expressed himself eager to hear her. But she says that she is not able to play for very long at a time; she finds it tiring.”
Susan did not comment on this; they understood one another too well. It was singular: she began to feel that she had been knowing Henry Crawford for years.
On the sweep she was disheartened, though hardly surprised, to see Julia’s barouche. Mrs. Yates had, of course, been informed by note of Tom’s accident, and was now come, all sisterly concern, to find out how he did. Charlotte had not accompanied her (a small mercy for which Susan was duly thankful); Miss Yates had found herself quite prostrated after her various misadventures at the picnic, and had been laid down for several days upon her bed.
Julia was sitting with Lady Bertram and Mrs. Osborne. They inquired eagerly how Tom did, and Susan was able to give them sufficient reassurance as to his condition; though his mother was greatly disappointed that he still was not permitted to come home.
“Sure they can do nothing for him at the White House that we could not do better here.”
Susan, recalling the profound effect that Miss Crawford was having upon him, could not agree, but kept her opinions to herself.
“Stupid fellow!” cried Julia. “I have no sympathy with Tom! He brought all his misfortunes upon himself! And John says the same! Why should he ride to the picnic on that vicious, half-trained colt? It was vanity—pure, boastful, idiotic thoughtlessness! And he was abominably rude to Miss Yates— did not inquire after her hurts, hardly addressed a word to her throughout, never said goodbye: she was perfectly mortified by such usage. I have no patience with Tom. It is certainly most unfortunate that he should now be laid up in the house of those talking, scheming, encroaching Crawfords—but he has only himself to thank for his troubles, after all.—I suppose the Crawfords will now expect to be received in this house. Well I, for one, do not intend to resume the acquaintance. I understand from Mrs. Osborne, here, that the affair with my sister Maria was not quite as represented—or perhaps not—but, for my part, I think there is no smoke without fire. I believe there may be things to be said on both sides. I never liked Henry Crawford—a sly, self-confident, insinuating sort of man—and his sister was no better. She always had an eye to the main chance. I intend to cut the connection, and I strongly advise you, ma’am—” turning to her mother “to do the same.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Lady Bertram. “It is all very unfortunate. Very disagreeable. But I will wait and see what Tom says, when he returns home.”
Susan could not help but smile, inwardly, as she imagined what Tom’s comments would be, on his mother applying to him for such advice.
To give the conversation another turn, Mrs. Osborne here kindly inquired whether the travellers in the West Indies had lately been heard from.
“Oh, I daresay they will never come back to England,” responded Julia carelessly. “Edmund manages my father’s business so prosperously, I understand, that ’tis all Lombard Street to a China orange Tom will ask him and Fanny to remain in Antigua and continue to act as agents.—Indeed, why should they return? I hear the climate is delightful—the planters live like princes, a man may have twenty servants who in England would have but two; they will be very stupid if they do not settle out there and remain for the rest of their lives.”
Susan was aghast at such a notion, which had never occurred to her. But she saw there might be considerable reason in what Julia had said. The family estates would always prosper far better if there were an intelligent, conscientious man on the spot to undertake their management; who better for the purpose than Edmund? And he might well consider it his duty to remain; his calling as a minister of the church could be followed as well in Antigua as in Northamptonshire. And if he remained, Fanny, naturally, would remain with him.
Susan was not at all sure that she was able to endure the prospect of such a severance. Fanny was her dearest friend, her favourite sister, her confidante and mentor in all anxieties and troubles. Just at present she was missing Fanny unspeakably, and her principle, her only comfort was the pouring out of her thoughts to Fanny in long letters. The idea that, for the rest of her life, communication with her sister must be reduced to such a cumbrous and slow process was not one that she could tolerate with equanimity.
—Fortunately she recalled that Julia had a tolerably strong dislike of Fanny; and, furthermore, generally found herself in total disagreement with her brother Edmund’s feelings and ideas. What Julia wished, she tended to believe must be the case; therefore, because she hoped it, she felt certain that Fanny and Edmund would never return to Mansfield.
“By the bye, ma’am.” continued Julia, “I have heard a piece of news that may well astonish you! My sister Maria, who is now, you know, married to Ravenshaw, has come into this country.”
“Dear me! Is that so?”
“Lord Ravenshaw, it seems, is a close friend of the Duke of Brecon, and so the pair of them, Maria and her new husband, are staying with the Duke at Bellamy, where he has a large party assembled for the races. I must say, it is rather like Maria’s impertinence, to force herself in where she is not wanted, so close to her former acquaintance.”
“Presumably the Duke of Brecon wanted her,” observed Susan.
&nb
sp; Julia lifted her brows in a haughty stare.
“I beg your pardon, cousin? Perhaps you were not aware that the Duke of Brecon is the most profligate old wretch, with, I daresay, half a dozen mistresses and nothing good to be said of him, save that he is as rich as Dives.”
“How very scandalous,” sighed Lady Bertram.
“I trust that you will not be receiving my sister Maria, ma’am?”
“How can I tell? I do not know what to think,” said Lady Bertram. “I shall ask Tom.”
“It will be very disgraceful if they appear with the Duke’s party at the Northampton Assemblies. My own sister! I shall hardly know where to look.”
“Perhaps it might be advisable for you to refrain from going to the Assemblies while you know that my cousin Maria is in the country,” suggested Susan.
“What? Be kept away from such entertainments as the district has to offer, because of my sister Maria? A likely thing, indeed! I will thank you to be keeping your advice to yourself, Cousin Susan, if that is the best you can offer.”
Somewhat ruffled, Julia took her leave. She was displeased that Lady Bertram had made no definite commitment of refusing to see Maria; and annoyed that Mrs. Osborne had remained in the room throughout her visit, for she had intended to impress on her mother, now that Louisa Harley was out of the way, the necessity for instructing Tom that he must now bestir himself and offer for Miss Yates.
Chapter 10
The recovery of Tom Bertram, as Henry Crawford had prophesied, was but a matter of days; the inflammation died down, his appetite came back; he was able to sit up in bed, then to walk; then Dr. Feltham pronounced that he might be taken home in the carriage.
