Edmund Bertram's Diary (9 page)

‘That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away al the evening upon a sofa,’ my aunt scolded her. ‘Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as we do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor-basket. You should learn to think of other people; and take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lol ing upon a sofa.’

‘I must say, ma’am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house,’ remarked Julia.

Fanny by this time had joined my aunt at the table, and I saw that she was looking far from wel . When I questioned her, she admitted she had a headache, and that she had had one since before dinner. It was not hard to find out why, for my aunt had sent her out into the garden to cut roses.

‘It was very hot,’ said Mama, ‘though it was shady enough in the alcove where I was sitting.’

I was vexed that Fanny had been so il used, and further vexed to discover that she had not only been standing and stooping in the hot sun, but that she had been sent across the park to my aunt’s house twice, the first time to take the roses and the second time to lock the door.

‘For she forgot to lock it the first time, so she was obliged to go again,’ said my aunt.

‘This should never have happened,’ I said, as I put my hand sympathetical y on Fanny’s head. ‘It was too hot for anyone to walk much in the sun today, and certainly too hot for Fanny.’

‘If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be knocked up so soon,’ said my aunt. ‘She has not been out on horseback now this long while, and I am persuaded that when she does not ride she ought to walk.’

I said no more, but took a glass of Madeira to Fanny and made her drink it. Vexed as I was with Mama and Aunt Norris for keeping her out so long in the sun, I was more vexed with myself, for it was I who had deprived her of her exercise by encouraging Miss Crawford to ride the mare. And it was I who had left her without any choice of companionship whilst we were away.

However unwil ing I was to check a pleasure of Miss Crawford’s, I resolved that Fanny must have the mare whenever she wanted, for I would not see her il again. Thursday 4 August

I made good my resolve and took Fanny out for a ride this morning. I found that I had missed her company. The pleasant, fresh-feeling morning inspired us to travel farther afield than usual and we rode to Bridge’s farm. We cal ed in to see Mrs. Bridge, for Fanny had heard that she was not wel , and found her in bed with the new baby beside her. The other children were running wild, for although the eldest girl did her best, the younger ones would not mind her. Fanny set about seeing to Mrs. Bridge’s comfort and helping her with the baby whilst I cal ed the children to order, and soon they were useful y occupied. When we left the house there were fresh flowers in an earthenware jar on the windowsil , the floor had been swept, Mrs. Bridge was easy, the baby was sleeping, and the other children were playing outside in the sunshine. We returned to the house. Having seen Fanny safely indoors, I went round to the stables to speak to the coachman, and when I went into the house at last I found that Rushworth and his mother were there. They had revived the plan of a visit to Sotherton and it had been decided that we would al go on Wednesday; al except Fanny, who was to stay at home with Mama.

‘I am sure Fanny would like the visit,’ I said. ‘I know she particularly wants to see the avenue. She may take my place and I wil stay at home with you, Mama.’

There were the usual protests but at last I had my way.

Monday 8 August

There was a change of plan this morning, for Mrs. Grant offered to stay behind with Mama, and so I am to go with the others to Sotherton. I could not help my spirits rising at the thought of spending a day with Miss Crawford.

Wednesday 10 August

It was a perfect morning for our journey to Sotherton. Crawford arrived early with his sisters and Mrs. Grant alighted from the carriage, saying, ‘As there are five of you, it wil be better that one should sit with Henry, and as you were saying lately, that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think this wil be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson.’

Julia mounted the box and sat next to Crawford whilst Maria took her seat within. Fanny and Miss Crawford joined her and I mounted my horse. Mrs. Grant and Mama waved us of , with Pug barking in Mama’s arms, and we were away.

As I rode behind the barouche I could not help but observe Fanny, and take satisfaction from her expression, which spoke of her delight at everything she saw. The road to Sotherton was new to her and her face lit up at each new view. The landscape was pretty with the harvest and there was plenty to see, with the cottages, the cattle and the children al adding to the color.

‘These woods belong to Sotherton,’ said Maria as we reached Rushworth land, and she was rewarded by a look of admiration from Fanny, for indeed, the woods were majestic, and in the heat of the day they delighted us not only with their grandeur but with their ability to provide us with welcome shade. ‘I believe it is al now Mr. Rushworth’s property, on either side of the road.’

The mansion soon came in view. Miss Crawford looked curious, Fanny interested, and Maria proud, and smal wonder, for it is a fine property. Julia paid it no heed, for she was attending to Crawford, and he was equal y absorbed in teaching her.

We arrived at last and found Rushworth at the door to receive us. Maria blossomed under his attentions, and the attentions of his mother, and she pointed out al the attractions of the house to Mary Crawford with the consciousness of a young woman who would soon be cal ing it home.

‘This is very elegant,’ said Miss Crawford as we went into the dining-parlor, where a col ation was laid out.

‘It is one of the newer additions to the house,’ said Mrs. Rushworth. She was an attentive hostess and, as we ate, Rushworth returned to the subject of the improvements to the estate. He proposed driving Crawford round it in his curricle when he should have finished his repast, the better to give his opinion.

‘But that would be to deprive ourselves of other eyes and other judgments. Would it not be better to find some carriage that could accommodate us al ?’ Crawford asked. The point was stil being discussed by the time we finished our repast, and the matter was delayed by Mrs. Rushworth offering to show us around the house before we set out. Fanny was fascinated by the furniture and the rugs; the marble and the damask; and the family portraits which lined the wal s. Miss Crawford, though, was restless, and confided in me that she had seen many such houses.

We went into the chapel, and here Fanny was disappointed.

‘This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand, no fleur-de-lys, or quatre-geuil e, or garlands.’

‘You have been influenced too much by Scott. This is no Melrose Abbey,’ I said with a smile, for Fanny’s reading had prepared her for something far more Gothic.

‘Perhaps I have,’ she returned, and I knew that, in her imagination, she was seeing the Abbey Scott had described, in the eerie light of moonlight. She began to murmur:

‘The darken’d roof rose high aloof

On pil ars lofty and light and smal ;

The key-stone, that lock’d each ribbed aisle,

Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-geuil e,

The corbel s were carved grotesque and grim;

And the pil ars, with cluster’d shafts so trim,

With base and with capital flourish’d around,

Seem’d bundles of lances which garlands had bound.’

I continued:

‘Ful many a scutcheon and banner riven,

Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,

Around the screenëd altar’s pale;

And there the dying lamps did burn,

Before thy low and lonely urn,

O gal ant Chief of Ot erburne.’

‘But here are no pil ars, no lamps, no inscriptions,’ she said, disappointed.

‘You forget, Fanny, how lately al this has been built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you must look for the banners and the achievements.’

‘It was foolish of me not to think of al that; but I am disappointed al the same. I hoped to find banners being blown by the night wind of heaven. Or even,’ she added with a smile, ‘rustling with the current of air, foretel ing woe and destruction.’

‘Now that I know,’ said Miss Crawford. ‘It is from Charlotte Smith’s The Old Manor House.’

‘You have read it?’ I asked.

‘Indeed, I am fond of Gothic romances — particularly on long winter evenings when there is nothing better to do. Henry read it to me last year. And to be sure, this chapel needs a current of air foretel ing woe, for it is very dul .’

Mrs. Rushworth, ahead with the others, was explaining that, although the house had its own chapel, it was no longer used for family prayers.

‘Every generation has its improvements,’ said Miss Crawford in a drol voice. And, just as I felt I was getting to know her, I realized I did not know her at al . I was dismayed by her attitude, for I have always felt there was something fine about a family assembling for prayers, al together, turning their thoughts into the same path before they separate for the day.

Fanny voiced my thoughts, but Miss Crawford was not to be persuaded, saying satirical y, ‘Very fine indeed! It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force al the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away.’

‘That is hardly Fanny’s idea of a family assembling,’ I told her. But she would not be serious, saying, ‘Cannot you imagine with what unwil ing feelings the former bel es of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets — starched up into seeming piety, but with heads ful of something very different — especial y if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at — and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now.’

Fanny colored, for she felt al the unluckiness of this remark as it reflected on my chosen profession. But although I was dismayed at Miss Crawford’s attitude, I took heart from the fact that she was surely capable of thinking seriously on serious subjects if only she was given encouragement to do so. She could not have reached womanhood without realizing that not everything in life could be turned into a jest.

I was hoping to discuss it with her, but barely had we begun when Julia distracted our attention by saying, ‘Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it? Upon my word, it is real y a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper license, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant.’

‘It wil be a most happy event to me, whenever it takes place,’ said Mrs. Rushworth.

‘My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not yet ordained. Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready.’

Miss Crawford looked stunned.

‘Ordained!’ she said, turning to me and looking aghast. ‘What, are you to be a clergyman?’

‘Yes, I shal take orders soon after my father’s return — probably at Christmas,’ I told her. She regained her color quickly, saying, ‘If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect.’

I smiled, for it showed that, as I suspected, she had a good heart, and had simply been carried away by playfulness. As we left the chapel I walked beside her to show I was not offended by her unfortunate remarks.

We soon afterwards came to a door leading outside. We took it, and found ourselves amidst lawns and shrubs, where pheasants roamed at wil . There was also a bowling-green and a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, beyond which lay a wilderness. Crawford spotted the capabilities of the area and was soon deep in conversation with Maria and Rushworth, whilst Fanny, Miss Crawford and I went on. The day was hot and after a walk along the terrace, Miss Crawford expressed a wish to go into the wilderness, where we would be cool beneath the trees. We went in, going down a long flight of steps, and found ourselves in darkness and shade.

‘This is better,’ said Miss Crawford. ‘Give me a wilderness and I am happy, rather than a straight path which is hard beneath the feet. Here is nature untrammeled, not bent into shapes which do not suit her, but al owed to roam free. It is a much happier place. Do you not think so, Mr. Bertram?’

‘For my own part I prefer a path, but the wilderness has a certain al ure,’ I conceded.

‘There is too much regularity in the planting, but otherwise a pretty wilderness, very pretty indeed,’ said Miss Crawford.

‘Too much regularity! Not at al ,’ said Fanny. ‘Nature must have some order, or we would lose our way.’

Miss Crawford was soon speaking again of my plans to become a clergyman.

‘Why should it surprise you?’ I asked her. ‘You must suppose me designed for some profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor.’

‘Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know there is general y an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the second son.’

‘A very praiseworthy practice, but not quite universal!’

‘But why are you to be a clergyman?’ she said, puzzling over it. ‘I thought that was always the lot of the youngest, where there were many to choose before him.’

‘Do you think the church itself never chosen?’ I asked, amused at her ignorance.

‘Men love to distinguish themselves, and a clergyman is nothing.’

I was only too happy to prove her wrong, and Fanny ventured her own opinions, which were in support of mine.

‘You have quite convinced Miss Price already,’ said Miss Crawford satirical y.

‘I wish I could convince Miss Crawford, too,’ I returned.