The rest of the morning was devoted to packing Henry’s trunk, and preparing for his journey. When the whirl of departure was over, and they had watched him disappear into the mist and gloom of the afternoon, Mary returned to the parlour to warm herself by the fire, and reflect on the slow monotony of a wet day in the country, with nothing but the prospect of cribbage with her brother-in-law to enliven it.The only slight communication from the Park was a short note from Tom Bertram by way of reply to Henry, but it contained no further tidings from Cumberland, and consideration for the footman standing shivering in the dark at the outer door prevented Mary from sending any word to Julia. She would have to wait for better weather, and as she was used to walking, and had no fear of either path or puddles, she was confident that she, at least, would not be too long confined to the house.
However, in this, she was to be disappointed. It was a further four days before even Mary could venture outdoors, four days that brought no further news, either from the Park, or from Henry, though in truth she had not expected a letter from her brother so soon. The next day was Sunday, and a brief cessation in the rain making it possible to attend church in the morning, Mary was in eager expectation of the Bertram carriage at the sweep-gate. She had no great hope of Lady Bertram, but the sight even of Mrs Norris would be a relief after so many days without seeing another human creature besides themselves; and while Mary’s sympathy was for Sir Thomas’s wife and children, she could not but acknowledge that his sister-in-law might prove a more useful and communicative source of intelligence.
The church was crowded—especially so, given the unfavourable weather—and it soon became apparent that all the lookers-on of the neighbourhood had heard of Sir Thomas’s misfortune, and hoped, like Mary, to gain some further news as to his condition. Mary felt ashamed to be part of such a general and importunate inquisitiveness, and all the more so, when she saw Julia Bertram being hurried to the family pew by her aunt, to the audible whisperings of the rest of the congregation. A brief exchange of civilities was all that was possible before the service, and Mary was relieved to find that Dr Grant made no reference to the events at the Park in his sermon, and the text for that Sunday was mercifully insipid; in Mary’s experience, Holy Writ had an unpleasant habit of being only too horribly appropriate.
When the service was over, the congregation hurried out into the church-yard, where the clouds had dispersed across the sky, and the sun had appeared for the first time in days. Mary shrank from the throng surrounding Mrs Norris, especially when it became evident that she was more intent on receiving congratulations on her son’s forthcoming wedding, than commiserations for the family’s sufferings. ‘If poor Sir Thomas were fated never to return,’ she was saying gaily, ‘it would be peculiarly consoling to see Edmund and our dear Fanny married. And then, of course, I will be taking up residence with them at Lessingby Hall, which is unquestionably one of the
finest
houses in the country. The interiors alone cost the late Mr Price over eight thousand pounds.’
Mary took Julia’s arm, and led her gently to one side. She judged it best not to press her on the subject of her own health, and confined herself to asking after her mother and sister.
Julia shook her head sadly. ‘There is no change. My mother has been reduced to a pitiably low and trembling condition, starting at every knock at the door, impatient for every new message, and then distraught when it comes, and brings no relief.’
‘And your sister?’
‘My dear Miss Crawford, I cannot tell you. She is one moment overwhelmed with grief, the next unaccountably light of heart, as if some intolerable weight had been lifted from her. And as for Fanny, she keeps mostly to her room. Her maid tells me she has taken to walking in the garden in the early morning, before anyone else has risen, but the rest of the day she hides herself away, and will see no-one.’
Julia would have said more, but they were interrupted at that moment by Mrs Norris, who began to scold her niece for dawdling, when there was so much employment awaiting them at the Park.
‘Really, Julia, this is hardly the time for idle tittle-tattle. You know as well as I do that we still have the bridesmaids’ gowns to finish this afternoon. And after I have been slaving myself half the night to contrive yours from what remains of that blue satin, you can at the very least give me your help in putting it together. There are but the seams, you know; you may do them in a minute. I should think
my
self very lucky to have nothing but such a simple task to do, but I will have to give all my attention to the filigree for dear Fanny’s veil—
that
will not stitch itself, I can tell you. And we have
still
not received those shoe-roses from Northampton, despite all the haberdasher’s assurances, and no doubt the task will fall to me to resolve, as usual, and meanwhile here
you
are wasting your time gossiping.’
Seeing tears in Julia’s eyes, Mary hastened to renew her offer of assistance. Mrs Norris was evidently surprised, and looked her up and down for a moment before replying, ‘Well, I suppose you
might
be of some use for the hems. Any thing that does not shew, and requires little refinement, may
perhaps
be entrusted to you. If you care to come to the Park in the morning, the housekeeper will direct you as to what you should do.’
She then gave a stiff bow, and led her niece away to their carriage before Mary was able to reply.
Mary rose early the following morning, and left for the Park as soon as she had breakfasted. After so many days of rain, it was a bright, clear morning, and as Mary made her way towards the house she thought of the task that awaited her, and could not suppress a smile. If Mrs Norris had only known, she would not think of wasting her talents on the tedious drudgery of hems. Mary had been taught fine needlework when still a young girl, and shewed a rare aptitude for the most intricate and delicate lacework. Indeed, after their uncle died there was a time—a very short time—when she had been obliged to support herself by placing her skills at the disposal of the fashionable ladies of Hanover-square and Berkeley-street. Her work was highly prized, and much sought after, especially for wedding gowns, but Mary took no pleasure in it, and nothing but the direst necessity would induce her to adopt such an expedient again. It was long indeed, before she could take up her needle for any thing but the most common-place work, but it still gave her pleasure to devise beautiful things for those she loved, and she had smiled to herself more than once when a shawl she had embroidered for Mrs Grant was admired in the Mansfield Park drawing-room.
Sir Thomas’s graceful, elegant house looked particularly beautiful in the bright sun, and the walk from the parsonage shewed it to best advantage, the lawns dotted over with timber, and the handsome, stone house standing well on rising ground. There was mist in the hollows, and in the curve of the valley, the workmen were beginning their labour on the channel for the new cascade; the sound of their voices carried across to Mary on the mild morning air. It was a charming view, of a sort to ease the mind, and lift the spirits, and Mary entered the house with a lighter heart than she had known for some days past.
But what was peace and harmony outside, was uproar and disorder inside. Servants were running hither and thither, doors were banging, and the house was all noise and confusion. Mary stood in the entrance, as motionless as she was speechless, scarcely knowing what to think or do, when the door to the drawing-room flung open, and Julia came rushing towards her, threw herself into her arms, and cried, ‘Oh Mary, Mary, thank God that you are here!’
For some minutes the girl could say no more, and Mary held her gently, allowing her sobs to subside, fearing that she knew only too well the cause of her distress.
‘Is it your father?’ she said at length. ‘Has there been news from Cumberland?’
Julia raised a face that was as white as death, and wiped her eyes. ‘No,’ she said softly, shaking her head, ‘it is not my father I weep for. It is Fanny.’
‘
Fanny
?’ repeated Mary, in amazement. ‘I fear I do not understand you. Am I to understand that some thing has happened to Miss Price?’
‘She is gone,’ gasped Julia, her handkerchief to her mouth. ‘When her maid went to wake her this morning, she was not there.’
‘Not
there
?’
Julia shook her head. ‘She has fled from the house, with nothing but the gown she had on, and we have no idea where she can be—or,’ she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, and her face crimsoning over, ‘with
whom
.’
Mary stumbled to the nearest chair and sat down, her knees trembling under her. Julia was still speaking, but Mary heard nothing clearly; it was only a hum of words. She was struggling to comprehend what could have happened—how Fanny could have left Mansfield without assistance, or without anyone else in the house having the slightest notion of her purpose was bewildering to her; and with both Henry and Mr Rushworth absent from Northampton-shire, she could think of no gentleman of Miss Price’s acquaintance who could possibly have had either the address, or the means, to effect such an audacious and presumptuous plan. Fanny had been much admired at the Sotherton ball, and danced with many young men who would have been only too aware that she was the heiress of a very extensive property, but from that to an actual elopement was in every way inconceivable! Yet even as such thoughts were filling Mary’s mind, a small part of her heart could not help rejoicing, despite the grief and scandal that must ensue for so many people she had come to love; for whatever the consequences such a shocking event must produce, one thing was certain: Edmund and Fanny must be divided for ever.
Julia sat down next to Mary, and the two of them continued in silence for a few moments, before Mary roused herself and took the girl’s hand. ‘How may I assist you? Ask me any thing—I am at your service.’
Julia gave a wan smile. ‘You are very good. It is every thing I can do to support my mother. Maria is no help, and as for my aunt—I truly fear she will go distracted. To have the wedding so close—the gowns almost ready—the date all but fixed—and then
this
. I do not think she will ever get over it.’
At that moment they were interrupted by noises from the drawing-room, and amid the confusion of voices the words, ‘Where is Julia? I cannot be comfortable without Julia!’ were clearly distinguishable.
Julia got to her feet at once. ‘My mother is calling for me.Will you do me the kindness of accompanying me? The only comfort I can offer her is to listen and console, but I fear I am in as much need of succour, and as overwhelmed with the enormity of this shocking event, as my poor mother can be. I am sure your good sense alone would be of the greatest utility.’
‘Yes of course,’ said Mary, rising from her chair.
The rest of the Bertram family were gathered in the drawing-room, but there was little appearance of unity, either in their behaviour to one another, or their positions about the room. Lady Bertram was on the sopha, Mrs Norris had sunk into a chair on the far side of the fireplace, Maria was standing at the window, and Tom Bertram was pacing to and fro. Mary had never seen him look so agitated, or so clearly a young man of a mere twenty-one years.
‘I cannot believe that she was not
seen
—that
they
were not seen. And we do not even know
whom
we are pursuing, which gives us but little chance of deducing where they could be.’
‘I should have thought London by far the most likely,’ said Maria coolly, turning to face her family. ‘After all, in three days’ time she will be of age.Whomsoever she has gone with, they will then have no need of a Scottish wedding to make the marriage legal—if marriage is, indeed, their object.’
Mrs Norris groaned, and turned her face away, and it occurred to Mary, for the first time since she had heard the news, that in the distress and anxiety occasioned by Sir Thomas’s accident, the approach of Miss Price’s birthday had gone unnoticed. She was about to come into her whole fortune, a fortune that would, by the terms of her grandfather’s will, pass to her husband on the occasion of her marriage. Mary sighed; she did not know whether to rejoice that her brother was safely in Hertford-shire, and beyond the reach of accusation, or regret that if Fanny’s estate was to pass out of the family in such a painful and public manner, it should not be Henry, with all his talents and merits, who was to benefit. She quickly dismissed the thought as unworthy, at such a dreadful time, and directed her attention to the matter in hand. It seemed to her that the situation required both method and dispatch, and the longer decisive action was delayed, the greater the likelihood that Miss Price would not be recovered until it was too late. ‘O Edmund!’ Mary thought,‘how your family miss you now! Tom Bertram has neither your judgment, nor your determination, but I will do what I can, if they will let me.’ She took a step further into the room. ‘Have you sent out messengers?’ she asked.
Tom Bertram looked up at her in some surprise. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I apologise if you consider this an intrusion, but in such a state of affairs a stander-by may be able to see things more clearly than those who are more directly affected. I have read about such cases, and it seems to me that the best course would be to send out messengers to every inn and turnpike between here and London. Furnish the men with a description of Miss Price, and it cannot be long before you will trace where she has gone. Likewise, Miss Price cannot have been acquainted with more than a dozen young gentlemen hereabouts; it is a matter that will require considerable delicacy, but if any of these young men departed the neighbourhood suddenly in the last few days, it would merit further investigation.’
Mrs Norris raised herself with difficulty in her chair. ‘Of all the impertinent, insolent—’
‘On the contrary, madam,’ said Tom, quickly, ‘I believe Miss Crawford has hit upon exactly what was wanting. We have been so overcome with shock, that we have done little but stare at each other, and repine at our fate, all the while doing very little to the purpose. But that will not find her. I will go to the steward at once; with luck and expedition we may have news by nightfall.’