Edmund Bertram's Diary (10 page)

She laughed and said, ‘I do not think you ever wil . You real y are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law,’ she offered.

‘Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness!’ I said, torn between exasperation and amusement.

‘Now you are going to say something about the law being the worst wilderness of the two,’ she said with an arch smile, ‘but I forestal you.’

‘You need not hurry when the object is to prevent me from saying a bon mot, for there is not the least wit in my nature, ’ I said, for I was frustrated by her determination to turn everything into a joke.

A general silence fel , and I regretted my il -humored words, but they were said and could not be recal ed. It was broken only when Fanny said she was tired and that, when we came to a seat, she would like to rest for a while.

I immediately drew her arm through mine, to give her my support, and after a moment’s hesitation I offered my other arm to Miss Crawford. To my relief she took it and we walked on. The gloom did not last long, and I blessed Miss Crawford’s wit and good humor just as much as, a few minutes before, I had been condemning them, for she bore no grudge for my sharpness and was soon teasing me again.

‘We have walked a very great distance,’ she said airily. ‘It must have been at least a mile.’

‘Not half a mile!’ I protested.

‘Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left the first great path.’

‘But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in length.’

‘Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs,’ she said, ‘but I am sure it is a very long wood.’

‘We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,’ I teased her, taking out my watch. ‘Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?’

‘Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch!’

Perfect good humor was restored by the time we came to the bottom of the wood, where there was a seat, and we al sat down.

‘To sit in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment,’ said Fanny.

Miss Crawford, however, was of a livelier disposition and was soon eager to be walking again. There was a straight green running along the side of the ha-ha, and she proposed walking along it, to better determine the dimensions of the wood. I fel in with her wishes and, leaving Fanny sitting on the bench to rest, we walked on together.

‘Now, Miss Crawford, if you wil look up the walk, you wil convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile,’ I said.

She smiled saucily. ‘It is an immense distance. I see that with a glance.’

We were stil laughing and arguing the point when we came to a side gate which led into the Park. To my surprise and pleasure — for I was growing tired of the wilderness, despite its beauty — Miss Crawford expressed a wish to go into the Park. I tried the gate; it was not locked; and we went through.

We came at last to the avenue.

‘So these are the trees Mr. Rushworth thinks his landscaper wil cut down,’ mused Miss Crawford.

‘Indeed.’

‘It would look better, I agree, for it would open the prospect wonderful y, but I am glad the avenue is here today. It is much pleasanter beneath the trees.’

We sat beneath them and talked of many things, Miss Crawford charming me as she so easily does, and I began to think that, if only she could be brought to think seriously from time to time, she would be my idea of a perfect woman.

We soon resumed our walk and found Fanny much rested on our return. I gave her my arm and we walked back to the house, where soon the whole party assembled for dinner. The talk was al of the projected improvements to the estate and we set out for home in great good humor. It was a beautiful evening, mild and stil , and I could not help wishing for more such days, and such evenings, in the future.

Monday 15 August

The mail brought a letter from my father, saying he intended to take his passage in the September packet, and that he would be with us in November.

The Crawfords dined with us this evening and Miss Crawford looked lovelier than ever in a simple muslin gown. After tea, as we stood by the window looking out into the twilight, the pearls in her dusky hair glowed like the moon in the darkening sky and I had an urge to lift my hand to her head. It was only with difficulty that I resisted.

‘Your father’s return wil be an interesting event,’ she said, turning towards me.

‘It wil indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but including so many dangers,’

I agreed.

‘It wil be the forerunner also of other interesting events; your sister’s marriage, and your taking orders,’ she said pensively.

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t be affronted,’ she said, with an air both humorous and restless, ‘but it does put me in mind of some of the old heathen heroes, who after performing great exploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return.’

‘There is no sacrifice in the case,’ I said, glancing at Maria, who sat at the pianoforte with Rushworth, ‘it is entirely her own doing.’

‘Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than what every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand.’

But she was wrong; I did understand; and I assured her that my taking orders was also voluntary.

‘It is fortunate that your inclination and your father’s convenience should accord so wel ,’ she said. ‘There is a very good living kept for you, I understand, hereabouts.’

‘Which you suppose has biased me? It has, but not in any blameworthy way: I do not see why a man should make a worse clergyman because he knows he wil have a competence early in life.’

Fanny had joined us and she added her agreement, saying, ‘It is the same sort of thing as for the son of an admiral to go into the Navy, or the son of a general to be in the Army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear.’

‘No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good,’ said Miss Crawford. ‘The profession, either Navy or Army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favor: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and sailors.’

‘But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?’ I asked. ‘To be justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty of any provision.’

‘What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed; absolute madness.’

‘Shal I ask you how the church is to be fil ed, if a man is neither to take orders with a living nor without?’ I asked her in amusement. ‘No; for you certainly would not know what to say.’

At this she smiled, acknowledging the point.

‘But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from your own argument,’ I went on. ‘As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which you rank highly as temptations to the soldier and sailor in their choice of a profession; as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are al against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his.’

‘Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income readymade, to the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing nothing al the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat,’ she said airily. ‘It is indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed; indolence and love of ease; a want of al laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish — read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does al the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.’

‘You can have been personal y acquainted with very few of a set of men you condemn so conclusively,’ I said, thinking, as before, that her thoughts came from others and not herself, for she had not enough experience to draw such conclusions from the few opportunities she had had to mix with clergymen. ‘You are speaking what you have been told at your uncle’s table.’

But she immediately contradicted me.

‘I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle that I can hardly suppose —

and since you push me so hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own brother, Dr Grant. And though Dr Grant is most kind and obliging to me, and though he is real y a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable, I see him to be an indolent, selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate consulted in everything; who wil not stir a finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humor with his excel ent wife. To own the truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it.’

My suspicions were every moment being confirmed. She had only had bad examples before her and so it was not to be wondered at that she should feel as she did. But I hoped that when she had seen more she would change her mind; and I knew her to be so reasonable that I did not have a doubt of it.

‘It is a great defect of temper, and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to such feelings as yours,’ I acknowledged. ‘Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to defend Dr Grant.’

‘No, but we need not give up his profession for al that,’ said Fanny. ‘Besides, a sensible man like Dr Grant cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very good sermons, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think; and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavors to restrain himself than he would if he had been anything but a clergyman.’

‘We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness depends upon his own sermons,’ said Miss Crawford satirical y. ‘For though he may preach himself into a good humor every Sunday, it wil be bad enough to have him quarrel ing about green geese from Monday morning til Saturday night.’

‘I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny must be beyond the reach of any sermons,’

I said affectionately.

Fanny smiled, and turned her face to the window so that I should not see how much my words had pleased her. I thought how pretty she was looking, and I was glad that my father was returning, so that she would soon be able to take part in al the pleasures of life to which her growing maturity entitled her.

‘I fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it,’ said Miss Crawford, seeing how shyly she received the compliment.

I was about to say that that would change when Fanny went more into society, but I was forestal ed by Maria cal ing for Miss Crawford from the pianoforte, and inviting her to join them in a glee.

Miss Crawford agreed at once, tripping off to the instrument. I looked after her, thinking what a wonderful woman she was, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread.

‘There goes good humor, I am sure,’ I said. ‘How wel she walks! and how readily she fal s in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she is asked. What a pity that she should have been in such hands!’

Fanny agreed, for if Miss Crawford had had better friends and relatives, it was clear to both of us that her opinions would have matched our own.

We remained by the window and looked out into the darkening night. Al that was solemn and soothing and lovely appeared in the bril iancy of the unclouded sky, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods.

‘Here’s harmony!’ said Fanny softly. ‘Here’s repose! Here’s what may leave al painting and al music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here’s what may tranquil ize every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world.’

She spoke with great feeling, and I said it was a great pity that not everyone had been given a taste of nature, for they lost a great deal by it.

‘You taught me to think and feel on the subject,’ she said with a warm smile.

‘I had a very apt scholar,’ I replied. I turned my head to look up at the star-speckled sky. ‘There’s Arcturus looking very bright.’

‘Yes, and the Bear,’ mused Fanny. ‘I wish I could see Cassiopeia. ’

‘We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?’

‘Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any stargazing.’

‘I do not know how it has happened,’ I said.

I was about to give her my arm and suggest we supply our recent lack, when the bustle around the pianoforte died down and the music began.

‘We wil stay til this is finished, Fanny,’ I said.

I walked over to the instrument and as I did so Miss Crawford began to sing. I was enchanted by her voice which flowed, silvery, into the warm night; and I was enraptured by the sight of her standing with her hands clasped in front of her, showing the delicacy of her white arms and the grace of her carriage. I was so enchanted by the whole that, when it was over, I asked to hear it again.

The evening at last broke up and I walked Miss Crawford’s party back to the rectory. It was only when I returned to the Park that I realized that Fanny and I had not had our stargazing, after al .

Saturday 27 August