Mansfield Park Revisited (5 page)

About ten days after the foregoing events, Susan was in the flower-garden with little Mary, picking a bunch of hyacinths to take to her aunt Bertram, when, glancing over the paling, she saw two figures approaching through the park, who, on a closer view, proved to be Mr. Wadham with his sister. As Lady Bertram had been left in a comfortable doze, from which it seemed unlikely that she would awake within the hour, Susan had no hesitation in walking out to meet the pair.

“Good day, Miss Susan! How do you go on!” Mr. Wadham hailed her cheerfully as soon as they were within speaking distance. “The weather is so fine that my sister has tempted me this way. We are acting as postmen—bringing you a letter that has come for your sister.”

“For my sister? Why, who can be writing to her at the Parsonage? All in our family—my mother and those at Portsmouth, my brother William in the Navy—everybody has been informed that she has gone abroad. I wonder who her correspondent can be?”

Then Susan recalled an old teacher, Miss Quantrell, who had taught both Fanny and herself, and who occasionally sent a letter to one or the other of them. She slipped the letter into her pocket for later investigation. Fanny had left instructions that if any correspondence of an unexpected nature should arrive, Susan was to open letters and use her own judgment as to whether they should be forwarded on to Antigua or retained in England for her return.

“Are you finding life pleasant at the Parsonage?” she then inquired. “Do the servants give satisfaction?”

“Oh, my dear! They spoil us to death. Your sister Fanny's Rachel is a treasure! And the garden is so pretty, now warm days are here. Frank sits in the conservatory and I sit in the garden. But Frank is mending fast, as you see: this is the first day that he has felt strong enough to walk right across the park.”

“Mr. Wadham does look better,” said Susan. “He has more colour. But you must not over-exert yourself. Had you not better come into the house, after such a long walk, and take some refreshment? I know my cousin Edmund would wish it—”

Mr. Wadham and his sister looked at one another a little doubtingly. It was plain that Julia Yates's lack of civility had not been thrown away on Mrs. Osborne, and that the pair had no intention of intruding where they were not perfectly welcome. At that moment, however, Tom Bertram rode round the curve of the driveway, returning from a survey of his coverts, and gave the parson and his sister a very friendly welcome. Sociable, company-loving Tom was feeling the lack of male society, which London, Bath, and Harrowgate had afforded him in such plenty; he had decided that the new incumbent was a decent, gentlemanlike fellow enough, and was disposed to welcome his presence.

“Why do not you step upstairs to the drawing-room and make yourself known to my mother, ma'am?” he urged Mrs. Osborne. “Susan will take you, will you not, cousin? For sure, my mother will be overjoyed to have a caller; she has been fairly moped since my brother and his wife went overseas.'

So while Tom showed his visitor the billiard-room and sent for a bottle of Madeira, Susan led Mrs. Osborne upstairs to where Lady Bertram reclined upon her sopha.

That lady had just awakened from her doze, and for a moment or two appeared slightly confused.

“What is it? What is the matter?” she asked, in a voice thickened by sleep; but, Mrs. Osborne sitting down by her in a most friendly way, quite lacking in ceremony, and engaging her in conversation about the work that she was at present embarked on (a net purse), she presently brightened up to a remarkable degree. Susan, entertaining little Mary with coloured blocks at the far end of the room, heard with something approaching awe how Mrs. Osborne drew her hostess on to discuss crewel-work, tatting, the best method of making fringe, the best use for fringe when made, the salient differences between
petit
and
gros
point, and a vast quantity of related topics.

“I have not been used to occupy myself greatly with such hand-work, ma'am, until quite recently, after my poor husband the admiral was washed overboard, but, I assure you, the sailors on his ships used to engage in a wonderful variety of such occupations—knitting and knotting and netting—it would quite do your heart good to see them at it, their tarry fingers so neat and dexterous with the twine or hemp or whatever it might be. And they were for ever presenting me with knitting-needles and netting-pins, the dear fellows! Many a clever contrivance have I learned from some honest able-seaman, and I shall be more than happy, ma'am, to pass on some of my acquisitions to you.”

From descriptions of the sailors' ingenious occupations, it was an easy transition to tales of naval occasions, of which Mrs. Osborne appeared to have an unlimited supply, for during her eighteen years of happy marriage she had crossed the Atlantic four times, encircled the Mediterranean, and sailed round the Cape of Good Hope to the East Indies. Susan herself listened with unaffected interest to these tales, which were told with great liveliness and simplicity; and Lady Bertram, quite captivated, reclined on her sopha, the forgotten piece of netting slid from her hand, her eyes, fully opened for once, fixed on distance as she attempted to envisage the scenes described to her.—She had probably never been half so well entertained in her life before.

By and bye Susan recalled the letter which Mrs. Osborne had been on the way to bring her. Little Mary, having built a palace with her blocks, had crept up to the sopha, and, also falling under the strange lady's spell, was sitting curled up with her thumb in her mouth, leaning against her grandmother's skirts.

Susan therefore quietly drew the letter from her pocket and surveyed the direction.—The hand was not familiar to her. A paper-knife at hand upon the table—“Fanny would certainly wish that it be opened, in case it contained some request, or instruction, that needed carrying out immediately” was Susan's final conclusion.

She opened the letter and began to read. The handwriting was shaky—at first she found it difficult to make out. But by degrees she became accustomed.

My very dear, my dearest Fanny:

You will start, I daresay, to see this hand. Perhaps you will have forgotten it quite. So many years have passed since I last penned a note to you, and you will have so many other pressing concerns, so many other correspondents, in your busy, happy, active life at Mansfield. Sweet, charming Mansfield! My pen forms that word with greater ease than any other, even now, even after so long a removal. I never spent so happy a summer as the one that was passed within its quiet confines, and to the uttermost end of my life I shall regret the action—the series of hasty imprudent actions—that severed me from the life of Mansfield, and all that Mansfield entails. Mansfield, to me, will always spell perfection.

Well, you will be demanding, Fanny, what all this is about; I see your wondering look. Have you forgot your old friend Mary Crawford, with whom you were used to spend so many agreeable, if not instructive, hours, idling about the shrubberies of Mansfield Parsonage? Have you forgot the mare, and how I shamelessly and selfishly robbed you of her use for hours together in those happy summer days? Have you forgot the ball at Mansfield, and how we danced our shoes to tatters? You were the belle of the evening, Fanny, and I remember you yet, in your white dress with the shining dots, and the gold necklace you wore, and the poor heart that beat for you in vain! But I will not tease you, good, gentle Fanny; events fall out as they must, no doubt, and the prize you won in the great lottery was better by far than my poor wayward brother—who remains to this day a bachelor because he can find no lady in the fashionable world equal to replace hard-hearted Fanny. Yes, you may stare, but so it is. Henry has never married. The most cunning snares, the wiliest lures have failed to capture him. With such a memory to fortify his heart, he is far too nice for the gilded paroquets of London society; indeed, he spends the greater part of the year improving his acres at Everingham.

As to myself—the sad tale is soon told. I married to disoblige myself.—At the time, it seemed an excellent match. My sister, Mrs. Grant, was by no means opposed to the connection. But then she, poor dear, was greatly pulled down, at that period, by the complaint that soon afterwards carried her off, and, I dare say, was anxious to see me well settled. The man I married, Sir Charles Ormiston,
seemed
well-disposed and unexceptionable; not handsome, somewhat older than myself, but gentlemanlike, and of a fortune sufficient to command respect. But how was I taken in! I soon discovered that the appearance was but a hollow façade; he was an indolent, selfish
bon-vivant,
and not only that but a truly vicious man, of libertine propensities. I will not distress your ears, Fanny, by a recital of my sufferings at his hands. Suffice it to say that, though severe, they are over now: Sir Charles is not dead, but has to be confined, for his mind has broken down under the strain of a lifetime's excesses and dissipations. At me, he can no longer rave; he raves at his family's expense, immured in a distant wing of Ormiston House. Do not shudder, Fanny, he brought it on himself. He deserved no better.

What of myself, you ask, and the answer is no cheerful one. I have been unwell—very unwell; for a period my life was given up. Only the fond solicitude of my brother Henry, who sat for days and nights on end by my couch, holding my hand, begging, beseeching me not to leave him—only his dear affection recalled me to this earthly vale; and whether the boon of restored life he thus conferred on me was worth his pains, who can judge? Not I, indeed. At present I am still far, very far, from complete health. My physician has prescribed country air. Ormiston House is horrible to me, Henry's estate at Everingham, in the doctor's judgment, too bracing. Where, then, to settle for a few recuperative months?

Can you wonder, Fanny, that my heart has been turning fondly, very fondly, to memories of the glades, the paths, the lawns of Mansfield, to the sweet air that breathes above those leafy groves and verdant plantations?

In truth, dear Fanny, it is not only the
place
that summons me. Apart from my brother, and my deceased sister, the two dearest, truest friends, the purest and most wholesome influences that in my short and misspent life I ever encountered, have been yourself and your husband. Can you and Mr. Edmund Bertram—I write his name with a faltering hand—can you bring yourselves to overlook the errors of the past, can you forgive your faulty but sincerely affectionate friend? I do truly believe that only your conversation—your wise, grave earnest elevating companionship—intercourse untouched by guile or artifice—can now restore the tone of my mind. Can I ask this of you? May I be received at Mansfield?

A single line, Fanny—a single word—will bring this scheme to a halt. You have only to despatch the word
No,
to your troubled friend, and she will abandon the plan entirely. It may be too much to ask. But if not—if you and Edmund—there, I have writ his name again—if you, in your plenty, can spare a crumb or two from your well-spread table, I believe you will be doing a work equal in benevolence to any of your daily duties among the fortunate parishioners at Mansfield.

Henry, devoted brother as he is, has already ascertained that there is a house to be let in the village: the White House. (In the old days I believe this was where Lady Bertram's sister was used to reside; I do not recall her name.) If I hear nothing from you, Fanny—if a
No
does not come through the post to dash my poor hopes—Henry purposes to escort me to Mansfield in mid May, and leave me there ensconced. He, too, I will not deny, is eager to revisit the scenes of so much happiness—alas, of so much lost happiness.

Your affectionate friend from old times,
Mary Crawford

P.S. I sign myself so because I detest the name of Ormiston and will never, if I can avoid doing so, hear it again. I prefer the older appellation, and love best those who address me as M. C.

It may well be supposed in what a state of perturbation and astonishment Susan read through the foregoing lines. The letter was not one to be perused once only—as soon as she had finished, Susan began it again.
Ah, poor thing!
was her first thought; here, apparently, was this Miss Crawford, longing, pining to see Fanny and Edmund, persuaded that they, and they alone, with their elevating companionship, could restore her to health; unaware that, at the time of her solicitation, they were five thousand miles away, and would not be returning to Mansfield for many months.

I must write
immediately
and inform Miss Crawford—or rather Lady Ormiston—was Susan's first hasty resolution. I must break it to her, as quickly as possible, that her hopes are vain, that they are based on a false premise. How wretchedly afflicted she will be at the news. For there seems such an urgency—almost an air of life-and-death about the letter. I only hope that the disappointment may not bring on a serious relapse in the unfortunate lady's health.

She looked back, then, to the date at the opening, and discovered that the letter must have been several days upon the way, and had lain, perhaps, a day or two at the Parsonage before being carried to her. In fact it was now almost—perhaps quite—too late to countermand the arrangements which were already in process of making.—Now that Susan recollected the matter indeed, she thought she remembered hearing Tom remark with satisfaction that the White House was let at last; Claypole, his agent, had found a pair of eligible tenants. Servants had arrived; the house was about to be opened up.

Susan had reached this point in her reflections when they were broken in upon by Mrs. Osborne, who now stood up to take her leave.

“I fancy, Miss Price, that I have tired your aunt quite long enough with my chatter; but we have had such a charming gossip that I quite forgot the time. I had better run away and rescue Mr. Bertram from my brother, who quite doats on billiards and will be here for ever if he is not forcibly removed. Lady Bertram, I will wish you good day, and shall hope to have the pleasure of demonstrating that feather-stitch to you when I can persuade my brother to bring me this way again.”