Ever since the death of her father, coming at an early age, followed soon thereafter by the loss of her mother, Mary had longed for the feeling of security she had once known as a child, before her removal to the unhappy house of her uncle, the Admiral. Mary could scarcely remember her father, but reverenced her few memories of his kindness, his calm temperament, and how his presence had made her feel that no evil in the world could touch her. Her growing affection for Edmund Bertram had rekindled those long-lost feelings—here was a man who would protect her, esteem her, here was a man of substance, intelligence and character. His announcement that he was to take orders had taken her by surprise, and she had not been able to check her temper. She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.
But she was not helpless; she could act, and she could make amends.
She was fortunate in having a means of coming at Edmund, through his sisters. She did not leave off her regular morning visits at Wimpole Street just because Edmund, the real object of her solicitude, was gone from London; she appeared to be as sincere a friend and well-wisher of the two Bertram girls as she had ever been. Miss Crawford could speak of Henry, and the Misses Bertram could speak of Edmund, and even this was some comfort. But, she discovered, upon guileless enquiry, they did not write to Edmund, nor he to them, in the ordinary course of events. There was no way to send him a hint through his sisters to let him know that she was a penitent.
She consoled herself by doubling her flirtatious attentions to Sir Thomas, who was staying with the household particularly while Edmund was away. She feared that the son had shared his disappointment with the father, and had told him of their quarrel; but so far as she could judge, Sir Thomas greeted her with the same old-fashioned courtesy, and escorted her into the parlour and to her carriage as she came and went, as he had ever done. He was in fact more animated in her presence than with his own daughters, whom he habitually addressed in the most formal terms, while they, with their lowered voices and downcast eyes, were quite different creatures when he was in the parlour than when he was not! No doubt, Mary reflected, his formal manner toward his own children inhibited them from taking him into their confidence, Edmund not excepted.
Mary was also more than typically gracious and attentive to Mrs. Norris, and had the happy thought of asking that worthy lady about her methods of managing the parsonage in the bygone days when she was its mistress, asking for her advice as to management of servants, poultry, pantry, and etc., and this line of questioning, while it brought forth some uncomplimentary reflections on Miss Crawford’s sister, Mrs. Grant, which Mary affected not to understand or hear, was well calculated to win Mrs. Norris’ very good opinion of her. She was certain as well that Mrs. Norris would repeat some portion of their conversation to Edmund upon his return.
Every passing day strengthened her conviction that life was somehow dull and meaningless without Edmund Bertram. She missed the sound of his voice, she missed his hand holding hers in the ballroom, she longed for him to look at her in the way that he had used to do, before her sharp tongue had driven him away. All other young men of her acquaintance were fops or fools, drunkards or gamesters, danglers or liars; she was intelligent enough to recognize the solid worth, the manly virtues and the sensible principles of an Edmund Bertram, and she longed to secure them to her side for the rest of her life, even if it meant doing something she would have thought impossible only a few weeks ago—she would become the wife of a clergyman.
She still did not despair of making something of Edmund Bertram—perhaps he would become another Blair or Fordyce for eloquence and fame—or perhaps she could hire a scribbler to write something to be published under his name—it hardly mattered, so long as the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Bertram were not condemned to wear out their lives in obscurity in the country. She told herself that with her determination and ingenuity, she could shape him into the man he deserved to be.
* * * * * *
Two days after his visit to the St. Nicholas’ Market, young Edward complained of a sore throat, and soon grew feverish. By nightfall, Caroline was in the same condition. Anna, the nursery maid, and Fanny sat up with them, watching in the greatest dismay as a tiny red rash appeared all over their bodies. Before daybreak Mrs. Smallridge and her two infant daughters were packed off to stay with their neighbours, the Sucklings.
The apothecary came, examined their rashes and looked at their tongues, and declared it to be scarlatina and not smallpox, which brought some slight consolation to the family, yet, how many little ones had been carried away by scarlatina? Mr. Forrest, the noted physician, was called to bleed the children, which he did most thoroughly, until their
