Mary began nervously, for the part of Agatha was not an easy one for her: to pretend to be a young girl who was being persuaded into marrying a man she did not love by her father, when al the time her heart belonged to my character, a lowly clergyman.
‘Ah! good morning, my dear Sir; Mr. Anhalt, I meant to say; I beg pardon,’ said Mary to me.
‘Never mind, Miss Wildenhaim; I don’t dislike to hear you cal me as you did,’ I said, rather stiffly.
‘In earnest?’ she asked, looking up at me.
‘Real y,’ I said, more tenderly. ‘You have been crying. May I know the reason? The loss of your mother, stil ?’
‘No,’ she said, with a heartrending sigh. ‘I have left of crying for her.’
‘I beg pardon if I have come at an improper hour; but I wait upon you by the commands of your father.’
‘You are welcome at al hours,’ she said. ‘My father has more than once told me that he who forms my mind I should always consider as my greatest benefactor.’ She looked down shyly.
‘And my heart tel s me the same.’
Was there more to her words than a performance of the play? Did she think I was the man who could form her mind? And did she want me to be that man? Did her heart tel her that it was so?
‘I think myself amply rewarded by the good opinion you have of me,’ I said, and to my surprise, I found myself wanting to take her hand.
‘When I remember what trouble I have sometimes given you, I cannot be too grateful,’ she said, with a speaking look.
I thought of the trouble she had given me, and thought how wel our lives matched the play; and how strange it was that Tom should have chosen it; and that it was perhaps not such a bad thing that he had.
‘Oh! Heavens!’ I said.
Fanny said gently, ‘That bit is to yourself.’
‘Oh? Is it? Thank you, Fanny.’ I turned aside, and said the words as she directed.
‘I — I come from your father with a commission,’ I said. ‘If you please, we wil sit down.’ I looked about me for a chair. I found one and Mary found another. We both sat down, I nervously, and Mary very elegantly, arranging her skirts graceful y about her. ‘Count Cassel is arrived.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said.
‘And do you know for what reason?’
She looked at me with liquid eyes; eyes that were as transparent as the sunlight.
‘He wishes to marry me,’ she said.
I could not blame him. At that moment, I believe any man alive would have wished to marry her.
‘Does he?’ Fanny prompted me, when I did not speak.
‘Does he?’ I asked hastily. ‘But believe me, your father . . . the Baron wil not persuade you. No, I am sure he wil not.’
‘I know that,’ she said, with downcast eyes.
‘He wishes that I should ascertain whether you have an inclination—’
‘For the Count, or for matrimony do you mean?’
‘For matrimony,’ I said, finding myself growing hot, and, glancing at the grate, being surprised to see that there was no fire.
‘Al things . . .’ whispered Fanny.
‘Thank you, Fanny,’ said Mary, then continued with her lines. ‘Al things that I don’t know, and don’t understand, are quite indif erent to me.’
‘For that very reason I am sent to you to explain the good and the bad of which matrimony is composed.’
As I said it, I found my eyes meeting hers, and something passed between us.
‘Then . . . then I beg first to be acquainted with the good,’ she said.
‘When two sympathetic hearts . . .’ I swal owed. ‘When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be cal ed a happy life. When such a wedded pair find thorns in their path, each wil be eager, for the sake of the other, to tear them from the root. Where they have to mount hil s, or wind a labyrinth, the most experienced wil lead the way, and be a guide to his companion. Patience and love wil accompany them in their journey, while melancholy and discord they leave far behind. Hand in hand they pass on from morning til evening, through their summer’s day, til the night of age draws on, and the sleep of death overtakes the one. The other, weeping and mourning, yet looks forward to the bright region where he shal meet his stil surviving partner, among trees and flowers which themselves have planted, in fields of eternal verdure.’
She looked deep into my eyes and said, ‘You may tel my father — I’l marry.’
She rose from her chair and I wondered if her look, her tone and her meaning could be for me. Would she marry me?
I wished there was no more to be said, but Fanny, faithful prompter that she was, reminded me of my next line.
‘This picture is pleasing,’ I said, ‘but I must beg you not to forget that there is another on the same subject. When convenience, and fair appearance joined to fol y and il -humor, forge the fet ers of matrimony, they gal with their weight the married pair.’
‘Discontented . . .’ said Fanny.
‘Discontented with each other,’ I went on, ‘at variance in opinions — their mutual aversion increases with the years they live together. They contend most, where they should most unite; torment, where they should most soothe. In this rugged way, choked with the weeds of suspicion, jealousy, anger, and hatred, they take their daily journey, til one of these also sleep in death. The other then lifts up his dejected head, and cal s out in acclamations of joy — Oh, liberty! dear liberty!’
Mary’s face had fal en, and there seemed something more in her look than could be explained by the play. There was something in her eye that reminded me of a caged bird.
‘I wil not marry,’ she said.
‘You mean to say, you wil not fal in love,’ I said, moving closer to her.
‘Oh no!’ She looked abashed, then said with great sweetness and simplicity, ‘I am in love.’
‘Are in love!’ How I wished it could be so.
‘And with . . .’ Fanny said.
‘And with the Count? ’ I asked.
‘I wish I was.’
‘Why so? ’I asked her tenderly.
‘Because he would, perhaps, love me again.’
‘Who is there that would not? ’I asked, bending closer.
She leaned in towards me and said, ‘Would you? ’
I forgot my lines, and fel silent.
‘Ay, I see how it is,’ she went on. ‘You have no inclination to experience with me “the good part of matrimony”: I am not the female with whom you would like to go “hand in hand up hil s, and through labyrinths”; with whom you would like to “root up thorns; and with whom you would delight to plant lilies and roses.” No, you had rather cal out, “O liberty, dear liberty.” ’
‘Why do you force from me, what it is vil ainous to own?’ I cried. ‘I love you more than life. Oh, Amelia! had we lived in those golden times, which the poet’s picture, no one but you.’
No one but you. That is what I thought as I looked at her, with her eyes so bright. No one but you.
She seemed to feel it, too, for she could not go on until Fanny prompted her, and then made but an indifferent effort at the rest of the scene. My own efforts were no better, for I could think only, No one but you.
Fanny was kind. She said that, although we had missed some lines, our performance did us credit, and I found myself looking forward to a repetition of it when we should rehearse with the others in the evening.
The evening, however, brought a blow. Dr Grant was il . It was not serious, but Mrs. Grant had to remain at home, which left us without a Cottager’s Wife. Everyone looked to Fanny, for we could not rehearse without Cottager’s Wife.
‘If Miss Price would read the part?’ said Yates.
‘Certainly, you would only have to read it, Fanny,’ said Crawford. ‘You would not need to act at al .’
‘And I do believe she can say every word of it,’ added Maria encouragingly, ‘for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know
the part.’
Fanny was sweet and obliging, and although she did not like to act, she took the part so that the rehearsal might go ahead. I knew what it had cost her, and I thanked her for it warmly, and then it was time to begin.
Maria had got her lines by heart and needed no prompting. Crawford, too, knew his part wel , and imbued it with a great deal of feeling, his voice carrying around the room. We had just got to the part where he seized Maria’s hand when the door was thrown open and we al turned towards it in surprise.
Julia stood there, with a face al aghast, exclaiming, ‘My father is come! He is in the hal at this moment.’
We looked at each other in stunned amazement! Our father? But he was not due back for another month! Then Tom, Maria, Julia and I, recovering ourselves, went to pay our respects to him in the drawing-room. And there he was, looking thinner, and burned by the sun, and tired after his journey, but pleased to be home.
We had hardly al greeted each other when he said, ‘But where is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?’ in such a kindly way that I loved him al the more. His stateliness had sometimes frightened her in the past, but his mood was so affectionate that I knew his notice would delight her.
Fanny stepped forward, and he embraced her, saying how much she had grown, and taking her over to the light so that he might see her better.
‘I have no need to ask after your health, for I have never seen you more blooming,’ he said.
‘And how are your family?’
‘Wel , sir, I thank you.’
‘And how is Wil iam?’
‘He is wel , sir.’
‘Has he been made Captain?’ he asked her with a smile.
‘No, sir,’ she said, adding, ‘not yet.’
He laughed, glad to see her so bold, for she did not have the courage to say two words to him before he went away.
He bade us al sit by the fire and then told us of his adventures: his perils on the voyage, with storms and calms, and his business in Antigua, which had at last prospered. He broke off now and then to say how lucky he was to find us al at home.
‘You must have something to eat, Sir Thomas,’ said my aunt. ‘I wil ring for some dinner at once.’
‘No, no, I do not want to eat. I wil wait for the tea to be brought in.’
‘And how was your passage to England, sir?’ asked Tom.
‘Ah, now that was not such plain sailing,’ he said. ‘We had any number of storms, but worse was to come. We saw a sail on the horizon, and suddenly the ship sprang into action, for she was a French privateer. As she drew closer—’
‘Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea,’
broke in my aunt. ‘Do have a basin of soup.’
‘Stil the same anxiety for everybody’s comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,’ said my father indulgently.
‘But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea.’
Mama rang for tea directly, and my father continued with his tale.
‘We could see her colors, and it looked for a moment as though we might not outrun her, but then the wind fil ed our sails and off we sped, leaving her behind us.’
‘But how are you with us so soon?’ Mama asked.
‘I came directly from Liverpool. I had an opportunity of sailing in a private vessel, rather than waiting for the packet, for I saw one of my old friends in Liverpool who offered me passage on his yacht — and what a remarkable piece of good fortune it was to find you al here!’ he said again, smiling at us al .
‘It could not be too soon for me,’ said Mama, watching him with love. He looked around. ‘How glad I am to find you al here, for I have come among you unexpectedly, and much sooner than looked for. And how lucky to find you here, too, Rushworth, ’ he said, for he did not forget Maria’s fiancé.
‘How do you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir Thomas?’ said Mama. ‘They have been acting. We have been al alive with acting.’
‘Indeed! and what have you been acting?’
‘Oh! They wil tel you al about it.’
‘The al wil soon be told,’ cried Tom hastily, and with affected unconcern; ‘but it is not worthwhile to bore my father with it now. You wil hear enough of it tomorrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the third. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no at empting anything since.’
Tea was brought in, but afterwards, my father would not be stil , and said he would just go on a tour of the house. As soon as he left the room I knew something must be done. Tom went after Yates and I imagined my father’s face when he found his own room was no longer recognizable, with an air of confusion in the furniture, the removal of the bookcase, and the door leading through to the theatre. And what a theatre! Not the discreet affair I had hoped to encourage, but, under Tom’s fresh orders, an extravagant construction of timber, with stage and wings and scenery, complete with festooned curtains in yards of green baize. It was not long before my father, Tom and Yates returned to the drawing-room. My father’s good breeding prevented him from saying anything very much, though I could tel he was put out. Yates, entirely misjudging my father’s silence, would not let the matter go, however, and rattled on about the play in a most il -conceived manner. As he spelt out the history of the affair, I felt my father’s eyes on me, as if to say, ‘On your good sense, Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?’
I felt anew al the impropriety of having spent his money and used his house in such a way in his absence.
The conversation turned to the Crawfords and Tom pronounced Henry to be a most pleasant, gentlemanlike man, with Mary being a sweet, pretty, elegant, lively girl.
‘I do not say he is not gentlemanlike, considering,’ burst out Rushworth, surprising us al ; ‘but you should tel your father he is not above five feet eight, or he wil be expecting a wel -looking man. If I must say what I think, in my opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing.’
It seemed he had noticed Maria and Crawford’s behavior after al , though why he had not said something at the time I could not imagine.
‘I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same,’ said my father. After which, merciful y, the evening came to an end.
I was glad to return to my room, my mind in a whirl with the events of the day. Mary — what did her looks, her smiles, mean, as she spoke to me of love and marriage?
My father — what must he think of me for using his house so il in his absence?
I could not sleep — I stil cannot. First thing in the morning I must go to my father and explain the whole, for until I have apologized I wil not be easy.
Friday 14 October
I am relieved that it is over, and that I have told my father how sorry I am for letting things get so out of hand. He was forbearing and shook hands with me, and I thought how lucky I was to have such a father. He gave instructions for Christopher Jackson to dismantle the theatre this morning, and he dismissed the scene painter. When the latter had gone we discovered how careless he had been, for he had spilt quantities of paint and had spoilt the floor. My father looked grave, but said only that he would see to its restoration, and that, al in al , he was lucky it was no worse.
This afternoon proved happier than the morning. Having seen his steward and his bailiff, and having walked in the gardens and nearest plantations, my father cal ed me to him and congratulated me on what I had done. ‘It has al been wel cared for. I could not have wished the estate in bet er hands,’ he said.
Rushworth returned to Sotherton first thing, l
eaving Maria restless, and at last the house is beginning to return to normal.
Wednesday 19 October
The Crawfords were once more with us today, and I could not help thinking how different our meeting was from the last one. Maria blanched when Crawford announced his intention of leaving the neighborhood, but I thought it no bad thing as, perhaps, he and Maria had become rather too friendly of late.
Thursday 20 October
Yates left this morning. My father walked him to the door and wished him a pleasant journey. I believe he was glad to see him go, for Yates is just the trifling, sil y sort of fel ow my father does not like. Indeed, I believe Julia is the only one of our party who wil miss him, for she spent a great deal of time with him when he was here; perhaps more than was wise, considering that my father would never welcome him as a suitor. But she is young, and she wil soon forget him. My aunt soon fol owed Yates out of the door, carrying a parcel.
‘I wil not inconvenience you by making you dispose of the green baize curtains,’ she said to my father. ‘I wil dispose of them somehow; indeed I believe I could use a pair of green baize curtains in my own home.’
Friday 21 October
The house seemed quiet today, for with Yates and Crawford gone, and the Grants excluded —
my father not wishing to meet new people just at the moment — we were reduced only to ourselves. I did not regret Yates, but I regretted the Grants, and with them the Crawfords. I said as much to Fanny as we went outside for our stargazing.
‘The Grants have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem to be part of ourselves. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my father hardly knows them. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves.’
Edmund Bertram's Diary Page 11
