“I will pray for you, brother.”
“Oh, of course you will, dear Edmund. I will let you know if anything transpires as a result.”
And he was gone, with Anderson as his second. Edmund heard the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard, then silence.
“What shall we do, chaps? Cards?” asked Yates.
“No, that will not do,” said Sneyd, with a sidelong glance at Edmund. “Let us just keep vigil, and watch and wait for news of our dear friend Tom.”
“Gentlemen,” answered Edmund, “Do not think I would assume that you feel less than I do on this occasion, should you choose to relieve the suspense of this night with a game of cards. Please, do as you wish. It occurs to me that it might not be appropriate for a clergyman to spend the night bound to a chair in a private gentlemen’s club, but something tells me I may rely on your discretion, just as you may rely on my sympathy and friendship.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bertram,” said Yates, refilling Edmund’s glass.
* * * * * *
The candles burning in the windows at Mrs. Butters’ house in Stoke Newington testified to the fact that someone in the household was awake and keeping vigil. Fanny was in an agony of soul as she had never before experienced. Her failure to explain herself to Edmund haunted her grievously. She imagined only one returning alive—then condemned herself for wishing it were Henry Crawford that lay dead, rather than Edmund; then she imagined Edmund dead at Crawford’s hand, she imagined them both mortally wounded, and she powerless to do or say anything. She hoped that Tom had found Edmund in time, she prayed that cooler heads could prevail at the last moment and return them both home unscathed, for only then could she attempt to set right the wrongs she had done against Maria and persuade Crawford that the path of honour and duty would ultimately be the path to peace, tranquility and happiness. Fervently she prayed, silently she wept, ardently she hoped, aware of Mrs. Butters’ sympathizing presence but too overwrought and too ashamed to seek comfort from any earthly counsellor.
The first glimmers of dawn appeared in the east; she imagined the combatants meeting—oh, if she only knew where!—she imagined Edmund removing his jacket, nodding tersely at his opponent, trying not to shiver in the cold; she saw the smile play across Henry Crawford’s face, jesting and laughing to the end, the two of them pacing out their steps, then turning and—she covered her face with her hands and trembled with horror. Her heart pounded furiously, she sometimes had to jump up from her knees and pace back and forth on the hearthrug, she rubbed her temples, she wrung her hands, then glanced at the window again. It was lighter! It was surely dawn now! Undoubtedly, the contest was about to commence and a few more moments would decide it all! But how long, alas, how long before someone could bring word to her?
* * * * * *
“I say, it is beautiful here, isn’t it, Anderson?” asked Tom Bertram, surveying the open glade of the West Meadow through the rising mists of early dawn and taking a deep breath of the fragrant woodland air.
“Certainly. Makes you glad to be alive, doesn’t it?”
Both men laughed aloud. “Gad, I will miss you so much, my particular friend—with your particular sense of humour,” said Tom, embracing his friend one last time.
They stood silent for a few moments, listening to the birds awaken and call to each other in the trees, as they had ever done and would ever do, whether Tom Bertram would be alive to hear them the following morning or not.
“D’you think he will send his second ahead of him, to offer to make amends?” Anderson asked.
Tom wrapped his cloak more firmly around him. The cold morning air bit into him and he was chagrined to discover he was shivering. “He is a proud fellow, Anderson. And further, we cannot take him at his word, even if he were to swear to marry my sister. He may need a pistol in his back to get him into the church. In fact, like me, he may prefer to take his chances in a duel, rather than submit to a life he doesn’t want.”
“Still—healthy, wealthy, and married to your beautiful sister—I do not think that Henry Crawford would be an object of pity.”
“Nor am I, yet— “Tom broke off, laughing. “You might be surprised to know, how much solicitude I am feeling for myself, just at this moment!”
Another long silence. Then Tom sighed. “As a rational man, I know myself to be very fortunate. The world we live in can essentially be divided into two classes, those who do not empty their own chamber pots and those who do.”
“And, I suppose, those who empty the chamber pots of others.”
“Three classes, then. And I, Anderson, I have been to Antigua. I have seen the slaves who work so that I may enjoy comfort and ease. Dante missed out on one level of hell in his damned book—there is a place called a sugaring-down shack, where the cane liquor is boiled down—this is in tropical heat, mind. The cane is fed into mills and the slaves toil there for twelve hours a day—the overseer and his whip keep them at their posts, but sometimes they are so exhausted that they fall into the vats or are crushed in the rollers that extract the liquor of the cane. So many die, in the shacks and in the fields, that even though every white man there, who is so inclined, takes his pleasure upon any slave woman he fancies, there are not enough
