Mansfield Park Revisited (4 page)

The only drawback to this scheme being that Fanny and Edmund were due to quit Mansfield at eight o'clock the following morning, long before Lady Bertram had even left her chamber.

“Well then,” said Tom, when finally brought to accept this inconvenient fact, “there is nothing for it. Julia must tell my mother. Yes, that will be best. Julia, after all, is Maria's own sister, she must be thought to have the greatest interest in the matter. I will send a note over to Shawcross, and ask Julia to come tomorrow. I daresay my mother will be glad of a visit from her tomorrow, in any case; she must be missing Fanny.”

Having thus satisfied himself, Tom went away to write the note.

The other two were less convinced that Julia would be the right person, but, knowing Tom would not be happy unless he felt the decision was left to him, were content to leave it so, since both of them had many affairs of their own to attend to, Edmund the last details of his packing, and Susan the arrangements for the reception of her little niece.—They bade each other an affectionate farewell and swiftly separated.

Tom's note to his sister, imparting the news of the disgraced Maria's removal to London, and asking Julia to divulge it to Lady Bertram, met with an extremely curt refusal. Mrs. Yates had no interest in her sister's present position or whereabouts, and saw no reason why she should be saddled with the task of disclosing the matter to her mother. Let Susan do it if the thing must be done; for which, on her part, she saw not the slightest necessity.

In the end, therefore, it was Susan, who, handing back her aunt's netting with all the tangles straightened out, ready to be retangled, said calmly,

“Aunt Bertram, I have a piece of news to give you.”

“What is that, my dear? Nothing dreadful has happened to Edmund and Fanny and dear little William?”

“No, ma'am, nothing of that kind. It relates to my cousin Maria. Since Aunt Norris died, she has sold the house in Cumberland which my uncle bought her, and has removed to London.”

“Indeed?” remarked Maria's mother languidly. “To what part of London?”

“To Upper Seymour Street, Edmund told me.”

“Ah. I am not familiar with that street. When the children were small, and Sir Thomas was in Parliament, we were used, in the season, to take a house in Grosvenor Square; but I found the journeys to London too tiring; I began to find it too tiring; and so we gave up the habit. I take no pleasure in London. There are too many strangers. We go on far better in the country, seeing only those we know. Ring the bell, Susan, I want my dinner. Tom must be dressed by this time.”

Susan smiled to herself, as she obeyed her aunt, recalling all the foresight and caution that had been wasted on this slight exchange.

Susan thought it proper, so soon as Mrs. Yates paid her next visit to Mansfield, and she could be spared from an hour's attendance on Lady Bertram, to walk across the park and call at the Parsonage.

By this time Mrs. Osborne had arrived, and was installed as lady of the house. Her brother, the Reverend Francis, Susan had already met on the previous Sunday in Edmund's company: he was a sensible, interesting, gentlemanlike man in his early thirties, rather thin and pale from the illness that had obliged him to return from his missionary duties; he greeted Susan, when she arrived at the Parsonage, with every kind attention, and asked leave to introduce his sister. Mrs. Osborne, some five years older than her brother, was very similar to him in feature: she had the same long, rather serious cast of countenance; that of Mrs. Osborne suggested that she had spent many years with her husband at sea; she was deeply tanned, and her hair, somewhat untidily arranged, had turned prematurely white. She met Susan with unaffected interest, exclaiming, “Ah, my dear, how glad I am to know you! I have heard so much about you from your cousin Edmund. How young and pretty you are to have such a household on your shoulders! But I can see that, though different in appearance from your sister, you share her practical judgment and good sense.”

Susan laughed, blushed, and disclaimed. “It is all made easy for me there, ma'am; I only pass on my aunt Bertram's wishes to the housekeeper.”

In no time she found herself conversing with Mr. Wadham and his sister as with old friends; there was a bewitching charm and informality about their manners which contrasted strongly with the sobriety to be found within the confines of Mansfield, and which greatly raised her spirits, depressed at the six-months' parting from Fanny and Edmund, besides the prospect of being, during the ensuing period, principally in the company of Tom Bertram and Mrs. Yates. But now—with this delightful company to be found just across the park—she need have no apprehension of loneliness or lack of counsel.

“You must feel us as shocking intruders in your sister's house,” Mrs. Osborne said. “I have probably put all her favourite plants in the wrong places. I am a sad, heedless housekeeper. Pray, Miss Price, do not stand upon ceremony; walk about the house as if Mrs. Bertram were here, and, if you see anything out of place, do not hesitate to move it back.”

“No, ma'am, I have no wish to do so, I assure you; everything looks charmingly; it is a pleasure to see the house in such good hands.”

Mr. Wadham presently excused himself to be off about his duties in the parish, and Susan soon after rose to take her leave, explaining that she could not be absent from her aunt for too long.

“May I walk back with you across the park?” inquired Mrs. Osborne. “That would be such a pleasure. I am used to take long walks and rides every day, in Cumberland, you know, where it is so wild that the sight of an unescorted lady causes no remark because there is nobody to see her; one may walk for twenty miles and never encounter a soul. Here it is not so, I am aware, and I have promised Frank to curtail my walks. He, poor fellow, is still weak, and soon knocked up; I cannot expect him to escort me just yet except in the barouche.”

Susan was happy to have her company and the two ladies crossed the park at a quick pace. The month was April, and Mrs. Osborne exclaimed at how much further advanced the season was here than in the countryside she had left behind.

“There, you know, Miss Price, winter lasts until mid May; but here, how fresh, how green everything appears. What a charming prospect across these lawns and plantations. You are lucky to live amid such scenes.”

“I am fully aware of that.' said Susan. “Until I was fourteen, you know, I lived in a city, in Portsmouth. I was accustomed only to crowds, incessant noise, dirt, and confusion. Even after four years my awareness, my gratitude for the alteration in my circumstances has not abated in the slightest degree; I feel it every day. I love Mansfield dearly.”

Mrs. Osborne smiled in friendly approval of this sentiment. “I believe,” she said, “that Mansfield has a particular charm, a particular power to instil affection into the hearts of those who reside here. Some months since, as I believe you may know, I was able to be of service to a sick lady—your aunt, Mrs. Norris. Towards the end, her illness had affected her mind, she was greatly confused and wandering a great deal of the time; all the while I sat with her, in her delirium, she would be talking of Mansfield, its walks, its shrubberies, its lawns and gates; she missed it sadly, I am sure, poor lady, and yearned to be back here.”

Susan was much struck by this. “How very sad! My poor aunt Norris. I did not know that she was so attached to the place. I was not well acquainted with my aunt; she quitted Mansfield very shortly after I arrived here.”

Susan could have added that the departure of her aunt Norris was a source of unalloyed relief, since her aunt had taken a strong dislike to the newly arrived niece and lost no opportunity of bestowing snubs, sharp remarks, and slighting references to
poor and pushing relations.
But there was no purpose in speaking ill of the dead. She said instead, “Aunt Norris was very devoted to my cousin Maria, I collect. She must at least have been happy to die in her company.”

Mrs. Osborne looked doubtful. “Your cousin Maria—have you ever met her?''

“No, I have not.”

“She is of a strong, impatient disposition, not the most suitable, perhaps, for care of a sick person. Latterly she was not much in company with your aunt; she was not equal to the requirements of invalid care, and the vagaries and ramblings of Mrs. Norris worried and wore her out; some people are like that; they find a sick-room too taxing. Your aunt, I think, had been a very strong, active character, when in good health?”

“So I understand.”

“Her niece, perhaps, had relied upon her and depended on her; then she found it too difficult when the positions were reversed and she herself was called upon to be the supporter.”

“I fancy,” said Susan, thinking of Maria's sister Julia, and of how little use
she
was likely to be in a sick-room, “I fancy that my aunt Norris was very lucky to have you, ma'am, as a neighbour and friend during her last illness.”

“Oh, my dear. I have been used to so many vicissitudes! On board ship, you know—and most of my life has been spent on board ship—there is always somebody in need of care. I have nursed a great quantity of midshipmen, lieutenants, even captains, in my time; I looked to nurse my poor husband in his last illness, and it was a sad shock when he was swept overboard by a wave in the North Seas.—But your aunt Norris I believe would have been very glad to return to Mansfield. Very frequently in her latter days she would be mistaking me for her sister Lady Bertram. ‘It is time the girls should have a ball at Mansfield, sister,' she has said to me, twenty times over, and I always replied, ‘They shall have one, Mrs. Norris, as soon as you are back on your feet and cook has made sufficient white soup.'”

“Ah, poor soul,” cried Susan, touched by this story. “It will be very kind in you, Mrs. Osborne, to talk with my aunt Bertram some time about her sister, and tell her some of these memories. But, I think, not quite yet; my uncle's death, and the departure of my sister and her husband, have been heavy burdens on my aunt—her mental constitution is not robust—”

“I would not dream of troubling her with sad recollections at present.” quickly replied Mrs. Osborne. “Only let me know when my presence would be acceptable, and I shall be happy to wait upon her.—Ah, is that the White House over there?”—pointing across the park to where the thatched roofs of Mansfield village could be seen, and one house somewhat larger than the rest. “So many, many times your poor aunt would be talking about the White House. ‘It is not a large habitation, but just of a size to support the rank of gentlewoman, with one modest-sized reception room and a spare room for a friend—' So often she has described house and garden that I could almost have sketched the place from memory! Who lives there now?”

“Why, no one at present,” said Susan. “An old tutor of my cousins was living there for some time, but he removed to be with his brother at Padstowe. My cousin Tom wishes to let the house, and has put it in the hands of his agent Mr. Claypole.—Dear me, here is my cousin Mrs. Yates. I am rather surprised that she should have left my aunt alone.”

Julia was to be seen on the carriage sweep in front of the house, calling her little boys, who were throwing stones at the lilies in the lily-pond.

“There
you are, Susan! At last! I am sure I have been waiting for you this hour, until Tommy and Johnny were quite out of patience—for my mother, you know, soon becomes fatigued in their company, and they are not used, poor little fellows, to sit quiet as mice indoors without moving a finger—and Lady Bertram would have it that Johnny stuck a needle into Pug, which is not possible since he was quite at the other end of the room, good as gold, looking at a book of engravings—and then Tom came in, and was quite unreasonable; so I have left
him
with my mother, and went to inform Whittemore of the scandalous tales I have heard from Galloway about the way the Mansfield under-servants behave in church—”

Julia had cast one careless, slighting look at Susan's companion, and then, continuing to deliver this tirade, ignored her completely, as if she were of no account. Susan, mortified at such behavior, endeavoured to cut short the flow.

“Cousin Julia, let me make known to you Mrs. Osborne, Mr. Wadham's sister, from the Parsonage.”

At this reminder, clearly given, Mrs. Yates did recall her manners, and gave utterance to a few perfunctory and meaningless civilities, very artificially delivered. To these Mrs. Osborne replied with remarks of considerably more genuine value, and concluded by hoping to have the pleasure of waiting upon Lady Bertram within a few days. Then, taking a very friendly leave of Susan, Mrs. Osborne turned back the way they had come, walking at a quick pace.

“Good heaven! What a very odd-looking woman!” said Julia, glancing after her. “Really, when you first appeared with her, I thought she must be some old retired governess or laundry-woman. What a figure she makes of herself! No one would believe that Admiral Osborne left her over eighty thousand pounds when he died—yet such I have heard to be the case. But those persons connected with the Navy are all the same—no style, no manners, no elegance. I suppose she will now be expecting to effect an
entrée
into Mansfield—‘Wait on Lady Bertram,' indeed. Such impertinence! What pleasure, what conversation, what interest can
she
have to offer my mother?
That
is hardly an acquaintance to be encouraged. I suppose we shall be obliged to receive the brother, since he is to conduct the service on Sundays, but I confess I do not see the necessity of including such a person as that in our circle. It is rather hard that she should force herself upon us.”

Susan felt herself so wholly in opposition to all the sentiments here uttered that she was greatly relieved when at this moment little Johnny, over-reaching himself, fell into the lily-pond to be rescued amid screams and splashes.

Julia shortly thereafter taking her departure with her children, the subject of Mrs. Osborne did not arise again upon that day.