“But our father is expected every day, and I grieve to think of how imperfectly we have discharged the trust he placed in us, to superintend his daughters—”
“Stop! Stop, don’t preach to me now, for pity’s sake, Edmund!” cried Thomas. “We have enough to do. We must break the news to our mother, we must manage Julia somehow. Can she reconcile herself to a marriage between Maria and Mr. Crawford? What think you?”
“Perhaps, if given enough time. I can hardly take it in myself and I never fancied myself in love with Crawford, as I fear Julia has. But as awkward as this situation is, matters may yet tend for the best. You know what misgivings I was harbouring about Maria’s union with Rushworth. Crawford is inferior to Rushworth in point of fortune, but his superior in understanding, education, address, wit—”
“Surpassing Rushworth in wit would be about as challenging as surpassing our dear mother in enterprise.”
“Yes, yes, and perhaps this augurs well for Maria’s happiness, once the scandal attached to the sudden dissolution of her engagement to Rushworth passes over. However, can an understanding formed under such circumstances be expected to prosper? Whatever intimations Crawford has given to Maria of his attachment to her—”
(May you never know about the intimations Crawford gave to our Maria, old boy, Tom thought to himself.)
“—he knew she was promised to Rushworth. What is more, considering matters in this new light, I think Crawford’s manner was a little too warm with Julia. I was disposed to like Crawford, but, taken all in all, I doubt that Maria will find lasting happiness with him. How can she rely upon his constancy, faithfulness, honour? I will always regret how this came about, as should they. Even though,” —Edmund could not but consider the effect upon her who was always foremost in his thoughts— “even though I have reasons of my own for desiring closer ties to this family. But happily for us, Tom, we may defer any decision regarding a union with Crawford until our father’s return, which will accord with our inclinations and his principles. He asked that Maria not marry until he returned, and this condition should abide even if the bridegroom changes.”
Tom suddenly had a happy inspiration. “You are to become a clergyman soon, Edmund. Bearing sad tidings will be no small part of your future duties. Who better than you to separate Maria from Rushworth?”
Fortunately for Tom Bertram, nothing so reconciled his brother to the performance of an unpleasant task than the hint that it was a moral duty. Edmund charitably disregarded the motive that prompted it, and saw matters as Tom could have wished—if he shrank from addressing the follies and sorrows of others, he was perhaps unsuited for ordination. With a heavy sigh, Edmund arose and dressed and sought out Mr. Rushworth for the first of many unpleasant interviews that must be held before the morning was over. He had never before had such cause to be thankful that his mother was not in the habit of early rising, and that his Aunt Norris preferred to take a dish of hot chocolate in her room before joining the family at breakfast.
He cared not a jot for the loss of the connection to Mr. Rushworth’s grand estates and fortune, and he hoped, rather than believed, Maria would feel more regret for the pain she would be causing Mr. Rushworth, than for the loss of Sotherton and all the consequence and distinction attached to it. But above all Edmund wondered, how would Mary—for so he thought of her—bear this news? Would she be chagrined, as he was, that their near relations had engaged in secret intrigues—Maria, breaking her pledge to another, and Henry, requiting the hospitality of the Bertrams in such a fashion? Or would Mary welcome the joining of the two families as a precursor to another, more intimate tie?
Edmund found Maria’s fiancé—or so poor Mr. Rushworth still fancied himself—pacing up and down in the little theatre, attempting to memorize one of his two-and-forty speeches, beating time with one hand as he furled and unfurled his copy of Lovers’ Vows.
…In a gay, lively, flimsy… hang it all! In a gay, lively, inconsiderate, flimsy… gay, lively, inconsiderate, flimsy, frivolous coxcomb… such as… such myself, it is… excusable. No— it is inexcusable: In a gay, lively, inconsiderate, flimsy, frivolous coxcomb such as myself, it is inexcusable. For me to keep my word to a woman, would be deceit: 'tis not expected of me. It is in my character to break oaths in love.
A quiet shuffling, an ahem! brought Mr. Rushworth to order. He brightened at the sight of Edmund. “Is everyone awake? Is breakfast ready?”
Although Edmund had never congratulated himself on the prospect of having Mr. Rushworth as a brother-in-law, it was with genuine shame that he explained the connexion between the families was not to be—if Mr. Rushworth wished to hear confirmation from Maria’s own lips he should have it, but circumstances had arisen which compelled the Bertram brothers, acting in loco parentis, to state that they could not, in honour, allow Mr. Rushworth to marry their sister. Maria had transferred her affections to another—Mr. Rushworth could not be in doubt as to whom Edmund referred—Mr. Rushworth was held in too high esteem by them all, not excluding, of course, Maria, for any of them to be a party to the marriage going forward under the present circumstances. Edmund observed Mr. Rushworth’s countenance change slowly from perplexity, to surprise, to indignation, before Edmund’s concluding ‘greatest esteem and very great regret.’
Rushworth cleared his throat, and asked for his carriage. “I think I shall go away. I believe I shall, Mr. Bertram. I believe I shall go home to Sotherton.”
“Without,” he added, after some additional thought, “Without seeing Miss Bertram. Or having breakfast.”
Edmund stayed with the disappointed lover until his manservant was summoned,
