Mansfield Park Revisited (11 page)

“I am very glad to hear that,” said Susan. “It seemed such a heart-breaking disappointment that she should arrive to find them gone—almost unbearable. And I was afraid that had contributed to her—to the fact that she is not getting better.—I mind that so very much!” she exclaimed, unaffectedly wiping the tears from her eyes. “For I have become so truly fond of her. At first I believed that we could have nothing in common—she has been used to be so very fashionable and—and my sister, in the past, could not help thinking her somewhat
worldly,
with her mind fixed, perhaps, too much, on material advantage, and money, and high position. But I have found no such thing.”

“I think, indeed, since she came to Mansfield, she has been changing daily,” said Mr. Wadham. “She is an unique being, indeed; I am glad to have had the chance of meeting her.”

His thin face, as he spoke these words, seemed quite irradiated; Susan could not help looking at him with a kind of anguish. Like an arrow in her heart formed the notion: he loves her! He loves Mary Crawford! What a terrible situation! She could say nothing further; her throat seemed closed with tears. In any case at this moment the doctor could be heard descending the stair, and they both turned indoors.

Dr. Feltham had nothing favourable to say. He had prescribed various medicines which might ease the symptoms but could do nothing to affect the ultimate issue.

“It depends on the patient's own resistance to the malady,” was his verdict, “as to how long the matter may remain in doubt. Perhaps two months—perhaps less. Not having been long acquainted with the lady, nor being familiar with her constitution, I find it hard to judge.”

“Do you think that her brother should be sent for?” said Mr. Wadham. “This point has been greatly exercising my sister's mind. Miss Crawford herself is much against his being summoned. ‘It will be to frighten him, poor fellow,' she says. ‘And why should I do that? I go on very well as I am; I have so many kind friends that I lack for nothing. If Henry is summoned he will be sure to come posting down to Northamptonshire in terror, believing me to be at death's door. Whereas it is no such thing!'—But what do you think, doctor? It would be dreadful for him if he were
not
summoned and—and the worst happened, and he was not here. We should reproach ourselves for ever. I understand that he is devotedly attached to his sister. Yet we do not want to alarm him unnecessarily.”

“I believe you had best send for him,” was the doctor's conclusion, after some thought. “It can do no harm; and it may help the patient to surmount this present increase in debility.”

So saying he took his leave.

Mr. Wadham escorted Susan upstairs, but himself remained only a moment or two, to present his posy and deliver a message from his sister respecting a preparation of arrowroot which she proposed to bring later in the day. Then he, too, quitted the White House, giving Susan a brief, serious look as he left, which she received as an intimation that he or Mrs. Osborne would be undertaking the task of communicating with Henry Crawford.

“What a truly delightful man that is!” exclaimed Mary, when he had gone. “What a prize he will make for some lucky girl! What can you be thinking of, Susan, not to snap him up at once?”

But, seeing that Susan was not in harmony with this sportive vein, she at once relinquished it, and instead listened with the kindest, most unaffected interest, to the news from the great house, particularly the imminence of William's arrival.

“He was a dear, sweet fellow. She remembered him very well, and how delightfully happy he and Fanny were in one another's company. It did the heart good to see them. And then, too, Henry had liked him so well; had lent him a horse to go hunting, and thought very highly of his horsemanship.—They had traveled to London together. Henry had much to say afterwards of William's modest, sensible intelligence. And he was now to be a captain? Wonderful! And was coming to Mansfield? What a joy for Susan! Why, she had half a mind to write off directly to her own brother, and give him the happy intelligence. That might persuade him to come down and see William for himself, and spend a few days at Mansfield.”

“Why not do that?” said Susan, to whom it occurred that this would relieve Mr. Wadham's scruples as to frightening Mr. Crawford unduly. “If you do not feel quite up to the task yourself, I shall be glad to write the letter at your dictation, you know, and you can sign your name at the foot. How would that be?”

“Oh, if I were not able to write my own letter, that would put my poor Henry in a sad fright! I have been accustomed to write him such screeds—to which he, of course, replies in a couple of succinct lines. ‘Dear Mary, I am in receipt of yours. All at Everingham as usual. I shall be with you on the 11th. Yours sincerely.'”

But, after some persuasion, she was finally brought to permit Susan's writing the letter for her.

“I am forever sending off letters at my aunt's dictation,” Susan pointed out. “To be doing so is nothing out of the common for me.”

So the letter was written, and at the end Mary insisted on adding, “The receipt of this elegantly writ epistle you owe to the offices of a dear friend, already known to you from one encounter, long ago in the distant past; and I trust that your further acquaintance with her will be brought about by your compliance with my sisterly wish to see you here.”

“There! That touch of mystery ought to be sufficient in itself to bring him hither. Now tell me of Tom, and the courtship of Miss Harley, and the unavailing efforts of Charlotte Yates. But first, why do you never bring my little namesake to visit me? Am I never to meet her?”

In reply to this plea, Susan divulged that she had, in fact, brought little Mary with her on the present occasion, but had left her playing in the garden, fearing that her presence might fatigue the patient.

“Fatigue? Quite the reverse! Pray send for her without delay!” cried Mary, all alight in a moment. “And tell Tranter to bring up some cakes and fruit. Dear little angel! I have been wearying to see her!”

Susan's fears, in fact, proved groundless, and the pair got on very happily together. Little Mary, at first somewhat awestruck in the presence of the grand lady swathed in muslins and gauzes, had her timorousness rapidly overcome by the lady's affable and cajoling manners. All Miss Crawford's toilet articles—of silver and ebony, ivory, tortoise-shell and crystal—proved also an irresistible attraction, and Susan, as she said, could very easily have left her niece there for hours together, solemnly gazing and touching and bringing things to show the lady in the bed, and carefully taking them away again.

“Fanny's child!” said Mary, with tears bright in her eyes. “Edmund's child! I recognise them both in every line of her features.”

“I will bring her again tomorrow.”

“The little love. Pray do so! Playing with her has restored my own childhood to me—my mind is now full of nothing but pot-hooks and samplers.”

She kissed her hand to them both as they left the room.

Returned home, Susan despatched a message to the Parsonage to the effect that a letter need not be sent to Mr. Crawford, as his sister had written herself.

For one reason and another, the excursion to Stanby Cross and Easton Wood had to be several times postponed: little Tommy Yates must be taken to Northampton for the extraction of an inflamed tooth, and was so poorly for several days thereafter that his fond mamma dare not leave his bedside; one of the Maddox carriage horses fell lame; Mr. Wadham's barouche had a cracked wheel; and then regrettable but necessary meetings of churchwardens and magistrates kept Tom and Mr. Wadham from the pursuit of pleasure for several days.

Meanwhile, however, the informal hop at Mansfield was in active preparation, and a night towards the end of the following week selected for the purpose. Tom rode about the neighbourhood issuing invitations; Lady Bertram was, as an afterthought, informed, but raised no objection, provided she was not required to take any active part in the business; Susan made the arrangements for the furniture to be removed and floors to be waxed; the violin-playing woodman was instructed to practise his country-dances and a companion who played the flute was presently discovered. Julia, of course, soon got wind of the scheme and came hurrying over to be affronted that she had not been consulted in the matter, complain that it was by far too soon after Sir Thomas's death to be undertaking any entertainment of the kind, to be won over by degrees as she reflected on the opportunity provided for Miss Yates and Tom getting onto closer terms; then to be annoyed all over again at the inclusion of the Maddoxes and Miss Harley among the guests; and to make a hundred and one suggestions for the betterment of Susan's arrangements.

“In the old days we
always
did such-and-such; balls at Mansfield were
never
conducted thus,” was her constant cry.

“My sister Julia grows more infernally like Aunt Norris every week, I swear,” grumbled Tom, throwing himself back in his armchair one evening when Julia had left them after an unusually lengthy discussion. “She is always so busy in other folk's affairs. She behaves as if everybody in the world had nothing to do but obey her whims and behests. It is the outside of enough. I begin to be quite sorry that she and Yates ever came to this neighbourhood. If only
she
had married Rushworth and settled twenty miles off at Sotherton, we should not be plagued with her advice and opinions a dozen times a week. By the bye, Susan,” in a lower tone, glancing towards his mother who, across the room on her sopha, was just sinking into a gentle doze, “talking of Rushworth, and all that, I hear that my sister Maria is in a fair way to be married again.”

“Indeed? From what quarter comes your information?”

“A fellow named Brooks with whom I was friendly at Oxford—now he is in Parliament and has a house in Hans Crescent; he writes me that the engagement is universally spoken of in London society, and it is thought that, all things considered, Maria has done remarkably well for herself.”

“To whom is she engaged?”

“Ravenshaw is said to be the lucky man; let us hope that he can hold on to her tighter than poor Rushworth did.”

“The Right Honourable Lord Ravenshaw who was used to be a cabinet minister?” asked Susan doubtingly.

“Yes, that is the fellow; I am quite surprised that you have heard of him, cousin! I did not know that you read the papers.”

“Was there not some scandal connected with him? About fraudulent formation of companies, or something of that kind?”

“Oh, I daresay it was nothing so very bad; and in any case he got off with nothing worse than a lecture from the Lord Chief Justice, or some such thing; nothing could be proved against him, you know. And he is as rich as Croesus; Maria will be in velvet pelisses for life. That will just suit
her.
”

“But did he not have to resign his cabinet post?”

“Well, what of that? She, after all, is no flawless saint. And he has his earldom.”

“Then, he is so old! In his seventies, surely? Maria is only twenty-seven!”

“Come, come, cousin; I can see that, if you had your say, no one in the whole world would ever be married. You are too nice in your discriminations; I am sorry for the poor pretendant who ever comes asking for
your
hand. You will, for sure, be finding fault with everything about him.”

He stopt suddenly, recalling that if Susan ever
should
take it into her head to accept an offer of marriage, the household at Mansfield would suffer the loss of an unpaid and exceedingly important factotum who managed the affairs of the whole establishment very capably, without noisy bustle, or putting herself forward, or giving offence to anybody.

—But then, with relief, he recollected that in November he intended proposing to Louisa Harley, and by December they should be married. Louisa was just such another good-natured creature; perhaps not quite such a clever manager as Susan, but
that,
she would learn in time; all that lacked was experience; and in sweetness of temper, docility, and happiness of disposition, she could not be faulted.

“Have you heard from my cousin William?” he kindly inquired. “When are we to expect him?”

“Tomorrow, Cousin Tom!” Susan's eyes shone at the thought. “He writes that he intends to travel down with a friend, Captain Sarton; and, so as not to be giving us any trouble, Captain Sarton intends putting up at the George.”

“Pho, pho! There is no need for that. He may just as well stay here.”

“William does not wish to presume on your kindness, cousin; and I think it very proper in him.”

“Well, well; we shall see. If this Captain Sarton is a gentlemanlike fellow—By the bye, Wadham said something to me of Henry Crawford's being sent for, or about to be sent for, because they were in anxiety over his sister's health; was that really thought to be necessary? She is not so gravely ill as all that, surely?”

Susan did not wish to be discussing Miss Crawford's state of health with Tom, who had resolutely refused to have any dealings with her or with the White House. She replied, simply,

“The lady herself sent a message asking her brother to come, because she had a wish for his company. And when
I
, who am perfectly well, consider how the prospect of
my
brother coming delights me, I cannot wonder at her doing so.”

“I daresay it is nothing but a take-in,” was Tom's uncharitable conclusion. “She has heard of the ball preparing at Mansfield and hopes, if Crawford is here, that he may find a means of getting himself invited.”

Susan who, up to this point, had been quite in charity with her cousin, now found that she had to bite her tongue in order to prevent herself from giving a sharp rejoinder.

***

The joyful day arrived that was to bring William to his sister and witness the festivities at Mansfield. Susan could not help sighing, as she breakfasted, at the thought of Fanny and Edmund, so very far away; Fanny had many times told her of a highly momentous ball at Mansfield when she had danced with her cousin Edmund. “Though even in my happiness at his asking me I knew that nothing could come of it, for he was deep in love with Mary Crawford.” How very differently matters had turned out! Far other than what the eighteen-year-old Fanny had expected!

During the day, despite the agitations caused by Tom's suddenly deciding that a pianoforte must be moved into the saloon although, so far as was known, nobody but Julia could play it, and the cook's expostulations about rout cakes, and Lady Bertram's having mislaid her favourite evening shawl, Susan contrived to find time for a visit to the White House.

She found Miss Crawford sitting downstairs, and very happy to be there, though Susan did not, in truth, think her sufficiently improved in aspect as to justify the removal; however, merely to be in a different room, and to be dressed in a gown with shoes upon her feet and her hair curled made her, she said, “feel a thousand times more like a human being.”

Susan congratulated the invalid with all her heart, but was secretly grieved at the thin, lustreless hair, which must once have been so black and glossy; despite the maid's care and skill, it revealed all too plainly the real state of the case. Also she observed that Miss Crawford appeared to be in continual pain from her back; sit or recline as she might, it did not seem possible for her to be comfortable.

“There is a canvas back-rest up at the great house,” Susan suddenly recalled. “It was made years ago for Tom when he had his fever, and he found it a great convenience. I am sure that Mrs. Whittemore will know where it is to be found. I will ask her to look it out and have it sent down to you.”

“Oh, my dear Susan—pray do not be troubling yourself! It is like your thoughtful nature to suggest it. But you must have an infinite number of tasks to perform. Indeed I wonder at your charity in finding time to visit me today. Is this not the day of the ball?”

As she had done many times before, Susan marveled at the impossibility of keeping anything hidden in a village; she and Mr. Wadham and Mrs. Osborne had agreed on the advisability of withholding the information from Miss Crawford, for fear of giving her pain by the contemplation of a festivity from which she must be excluded; and here she knew all about it!

“My maid Tranter heard it from the postman,” she said, laughing at Susan's expression. “I collect that my kind friends believed me lacking in sufficient self-control not to scream and stamp and throw my plateful of gruel on the floor at news of a party to which I was not invited. But such is very far from the case, I assure you. I am looking forward with most eager expectation to your dancing every dance, my dear Susan; and I shall expect a minute-by-minute account, tomorrow, of all those dances, of what everybody wore, who sat by whom, who danced with whom, whether Tom Bertram proposed to Miss Harley or Miss Yates, and how Mr. Wadham acquitted himself as a dancer. And I shall require total accuracy of detail, you know, because Elinor Osborne will be giving me her report as well, with equal fidelity (except perhaps in the last particular) so that I shall be able to check her story against yours.”

Laughing, Susan promised a faithful account.

“What shall you be wearing?” next inquired her friend; and then, sighing, “Ah, how long it seems since your sister came to see me on the very same errand, and I was able to persuade her that a necklace Henry had bought for her was really an old one of my own; was not that shocking! Otherwise she would never have accepted it. Dear, dear Fanny—what an age, a dreary age, it is since I have seen you!”

Then, shaking herself out of a brief, sad reverie, she once more inquired what Susan planned to wear for the party.

“Why—I have not a ball dress or anything very suitable for the purpose; my best gown is the one Sir Thomas gave me when I attended upon Fanny at her wedding. Happily it still fits me very well; I have grown a little since then but I contrived to let down the hem. In any case, this is not a grand party.”

Miss Crawford threw up her eyes and hands. “Lord save us, these Bertrams are a pack of skinflints! Has it never occurred to your aunt that you might be requiring a new gown, or some money to buy one with? Or to your cousin Tom?”

“Oh, to be sure, if I said I required a gown, the money would be forthcoming; but then, you know, I never go anywhere in society, so it is not necessary.”

“Gothick! Quite Gothick! I wonder they do not expect you to dress yourself in sackcloth and ashes. Well, I cannot give you a gown of mine, much though I should like to, for you are a head taller than I; but I have here a pretty trifle which I am in hopes you will accept—” and she withdrew from a folded tissue-paper an evening cap formed out of gold net.

“It is not new, I fear, nor, probably, in the latest fashion; but it has never been worn, and I greatly hope that you will do me the favour of taking and wearing it. With your long neck and your long almond-shaped brown eyes it will make you look precisely like Lucrezia Borgia, and that, you know, cannot but be of advantage to any young lady at a ball. Tom Bertram will probably be so overwhelmed that, forgetting Miss Yates and Miss Harley, he will propose to you on the spot.”

“If it could achieve
that,
it must be the cap of Fortunatus!” said Susan, laughing. “And even if it were the latter it could not make me accept him. But, seriously—”

“Now! Now! I will not have any
‘seriously'
—” affecting to cover her ears. “Pray accept the cap and let us have no more ado.
I
shall never wear such a piece of nonsense again, and I shall like to think of you dancing the Boulanger in it.”

“Then I will wear it, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for thinking of me.—Do you have tidings of your brother? Do you expect him?”

“Yes, and no. I have heard nothing, but that is Henry's way. In a day or so he will walk through the door without giving himself the trouble of being announced, and so I have the pleasure of continual expectation.
Your
brother, I understand, arrives today; you must be a very happy creature.”

Susan's look, her smile, confirmed this conjecture. “And he brings with him a friend, a Captain Sarton, who will be staying at the George.”

“What good fortune! So you will have a romantic stranger at the ball; every young lady will be struck by his piratical good looks and the enigmatic flash of his brilliant eye; but it will be at the sight of
you
that he starts with rapturous wonder and drops his gloves on the floor.” Then, reflecting, “Sarton? Sarton? I believe my brother had a friend of that name; his father was once a crony of my uncle the admiral. I wonder if it may be the same? A very decent, unobjectionable, unassuming young man, as I recall. I shall be pleased to receive him if it be the same one.”

Susan shortly thereafter took her leave and walked back to the great house in order to discuss with Tom for the fourth time the siting of the piano, to find Lady Bertram's shawl, and disabuse the cook of the notion that, since it was to be an impromptu party, three plates of rout cakes would be sufficient.