“I have seen this, and more, and now, when I contemplate the manner in which I threw away the sums earned by such toil and misery—with gaming and drinking and idle spending—I suddenly find the question of whether there is an eternal judgment, to be more than an academic one.”
There seemed to be nothing more to be said, so the two friends stood companionably, watching through the openings in the trees which encircled the glade where they stood, for some sign of an approaching carriage.
“What shall you do if he does not meet you, Tom?” Charles Anderson began to wonder, then squinted into the pale light of dawn…. “stay, is that his yellow barouche?”
It was indeed Henry Crawford, who, having spent the night with some good friends and, affecting nonchalance about the coming meeting with the Bertrams, had elected to delay his departure until the last moment. He fully expected that Mr. Stanhope would speak for him and make a contest unnecessary, and that the marriage articles and promissory note to Miss Price he carried in his waistcoat pocket would convince the Bertrams that he was at last in earnest. But, having left himself very little time to reach Hampstead Heath, and suddenly fearing that his late arrival at the dueling grounds might be attributed to cowardice, he pushed his horses to greater efforts. The fresh, invigorating night breeze, the empty roads, and his conflicting thoughts all led to a kind of elated frenzy, and he unrestrainedly pushed his team to their uttermost limits, as though signifying to himself: this is my last moment of freedom before I must put on the yoke.
He could barely perceive the two small figures in the distance, who he supposed to be Tom and Edmund Bertram, waiting for him in the meadow. He had expected to see his second, Mr. Stanhope, arrived ahead of him, presenting the offer of marriage on his behalf. But, come to think on it, he would be pleased to dispense with tradition and speak for himself. He had always held that no man was his equal in turning an indifferent acquaintance into a friend, or in disarming an enemy with his ability to charm and persuade. The forthcoming interview would be the crowning glory of his career—Edmund Bertram, who sought to murder him, would become his loving brother—he and Maria, and Edmund and Mary, would spend Christmas and Easter together, now at Mansfield Park, now at Everingham, now in London, and this morning on the heath would become a fond memory to be talked over and laughed about, and as for Tom—well, he had never been sure about Tom, but they at least could always talk about horses. Laughing out loud, and in final show of careless bravado, he urged his own team to greater efforts even as the narrow, rutted road curved and rose into the meeting-grounds.
His rapid approach amused, then alarmed, both Tom and Mr. Anderson.
“By g-d! He is laying on the whip—that must be Crawford. He is the wildest driver in England, I vow.”
“He is driving like a man possessed—watch him, look how he is taking the corner—”
Both men watched, transfixed, as Henry Crawford left the narrow road to travel directly to them over the uneven ground. They saw the barouche tip dangerously to one side and almost overturn, then recover its balance. Alas, a moment later, when he was almost upon them, they watched in horror as the barouche flew into the air—undoubtedly one of the wheels had come into contact with a stump or a boulder—he landed on one wheel, overturned and, still pulled by the panicked team, was dragged across the meadow to the other side of the clearing where all came to a halt in a tangled mass of horses, reins, mangled carriage, broken axle, and, somewhere in that carnage, a man.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mrs. Butters finally persuaded Fanny to take some tea—any kind of nourishment was unthinkable. She waited, miserably, as the parlour clock chimed the hours. Oh, would that it were Edmund who rode up to the door, healthy and well. Or Tom, with a hopeful message. And what if the combatants escaped with their lives but then were arrested for dueling?
She heard the sound of horse’s hoofs, but at an unhurried pace which proclaimed the advent of another day for traders and travelers, all going about their business in calm indifference. She heard window shutters opening, and street vendors crying and all the sounds of a world awakening to another ordinary morning. But no matter the outcome, that world would never be the same again for her.
Six o’clock came! Seven! Eight! There was no possibility of rest. The morning arrived, without pause of misery. She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. Although straining to listen with every nerve of her body, she was barely aware when Susan was escorted out, to pass the day with the wife and children of their neighbour, Mr. Stephen. With every moment that crawled by, Fanny felt her spirits sinking. Surely this silence meant that Edmund was dying or dead, with Tom attending him, too distracted to send a message to her. If Henry Crawford was triumphant, supposing he had even made note of where she was to be reached, he might have decided to leave her in cruel suspense. Her suppositions and speculations grew ever darker. It seemed only too probable that she would never see Edmund again—what other explanation could there be for this long delay?
At nine, when her poor suffering frame could endure no more, and she was resting on her bed, there came at last a knock at the door. Fanny sprang up, flew down the stairs and ran into the waiting arms of a weary Edmund Bertram. He held her tightly, without saying a word, for
