I was astonished at his remembering such a long speech, until I noticed he had a copy of the script hidden under the table.

‘Please, let us have no more until we have eaten our dinner, ’ I begged, as the soup was brought in, but I was talking to myself.

‘He talked of love, and promised me marriage,’ said Maria in sepulchral tones.

‘Why should I tremble thus?’ asked Crawford.

It was a very Bedlam.

Mary caught my eye and gave me an understanding smile. Then she said, ‘But we must forgive them, you know, the performance is now so very near. You and I must practice our scenes together tomorrow. We must have them right before we perform.’

I agreed, but only with a nod; for when I thought of the words I must say to her, and she to me, I found I could not speak.


Thursday 13 October

I rose early and went downstairs, where I found Christopher Jackson putting the finishing touches to the stage. It stretched from one end of the room to the other, and was set to rival the stage at Drury Lane.

‘Master Thomas’s orders,’ said Jackson, when I protested. ‘When I’ve finished with the stage, I’m to see about building the wings.’

I countermanded Tom’s orders and then, over breakfast, I finished learning my lines. I found I was dreading saying them to Mary, and so I repaired to Fanny’s sitting-room, there to gain courage by reading them through with her first. But when I tapped on the door and went in I found, to my surprise, that Mary was already there, bent on the same task. There was surprise; a little awkwardness; then I said, ‘As we are both here, we must rehearse together,’ for it seemed easier to think of reciting our parts if there was a third person present. She was at first reluctant but soon gave way to my entreaties. I handed my script to Fanny, begging her to help us, and to tell us when we went wrong.

Mary began nervously, for the part of Amelia was not an easy one for her: to pretend to be a young girl who was being persuaded into marrying a man she did not love by her father, when all the time her heart belonged to my character, a lowly clergyman.

‘Ah! good morning, my dear Sir; Mr. Anhalt, I meant to say; I beg pardon,’ said Mary to me.

‘Never mind, Miss Wildenhaim; I don’t dislike to hear you call me as you did,’ I said, rather stiffly.

‘In earnest?’ she asked, looking up at me.

‘Really,’ I said, more tenderly. ‘You have been crying. May I know the reason? The loss of your mother, still?’

‘No,’ she said, with a heartrending sigh. ‘I have left of crying for her.’

‘I beg pardon if I have come at an improper hour; but I wait upon you by the commands of your father.’

‘You are welcome at all hours,’ she said. ‘My father has more than once told me that he who forms my mind I should always consider as my greatest benefactor.’ She looked down shyly.

‘And my heart tells me the same.’

Was there more to her words than a performance of the play? Did she think I was the man who could form her mind? And did she want me to be that man? Did her heart tell her that it was so?

‘I think myself amply rewarded by the good opinion you have of me,’ I said, and to my surprise, I found myself wanting to take her hand.

‘When I remember what trouble I have sometimes given you, I cannot be too grateful,’ she said, with a speaking look.

I thought of the trouble she had given me, and thought how well our lives matched the play; and how strange it was that Tom should have chosen it; and that it was perhaps not such a bad thing that he had.

‘Oh! Heavens!’ I said.

Fanny said gently, ‘That bit is to yourself.’

‘Oh? Is it? Thank you, Fanny.’ I turned aside, and said the words as she directed.

‘I — I come from your father with a commission,’ I said. ‘If you please, we will sit down.’ I looked about me for a chair. I found one and Mary found another. We both sat down, I nervously, and Mary very elegantly, arranging her skirts gracefully about her. ‘Count Cassel is arrived.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she said.

‘And do you know for what reason?’

She looked at me with liquid eyes; eyes that were as transparent as the sunlight.

‘He wishes to marry me,’ she said.

I could not blame him. At that moment, I believe any man alive would have wished to marry her.

‘Does he?’ Fanny prompted me, when I did not speak.

‘Does he?’ I asked hastily. ‘But believe me, your father... the Baron will not persuade you. No, I am sure he will not.’

‘I know that,’ she said, with downcast eyes.

‘He wishes that I should ascertain whether you have an inclination—’

‘For the Count, or for matrimony do you mean?’

‘For matrimony,’ I said, finding myself growing hot, and, glancing at the grate, being surprised to see that there was no fire.

‘All things...’ whispered Fanny.

‘Thank you, Fanny,’ said Mary, then continued with her lines. ‘All things that I don’t know, and don’t understand, are quite indifferent to me.’

‘For that very reason I am sent to you to explain the good and the bad of which matrimony is composed.’

As I said it, I found my eyes meeting hers, and something passed between us.

‘Then... then I beg first to be acquainted with the good,’ she said.

‘When two sympathetic hearts...’ I swallowed. ‘When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called a happy life. When such a wedded pair find thorns in their path, each will be eager, for the sake of the other, to tear them from the root. Where they have to mount hills, or wind a labyrinth, the most experienced will lead the way, and be a guide to his companion. Patience and love will accompany them in their journey, while melancholy and discord they leave far behind. Hand in hand they pass on from morning till evening, through their summer’s day, till the night of age draws on, and the sleep of death overtakes the one. The other, weeping and mourning, yet looks forward to the bright region where he shall meet his still surviving partner, among trees and flowers which themselves have planted, in fields of eternal verdure.’

She looked deep into my eyes and said, ‘You may tell my father — I’ll marry.’

She rose from her chair and I wondered if her look, her tone and her meaning could be for me. Would she marry me?

I wished there was no more to be said, but Fanny, faithful prompter that she was, reminded me of my next line.

‘This picture is pleasing,’ I said, ‘but I must beg you not to forget that there is another on the same subject. When convenience, and fair appearance joined to folly and ill-humor, forge the fetters of matrimony, they gall with their weight the married pair.’

‘Discontented...’ said Fanny.

‘Discontented with each other,’ I went on, ‘at variance in opinions — their mutual aversion increases with the years they live together. They contend most, where they should most unite; torment, where they should most soothe. In this rugged way, choked with the weeds of suspicion, jealousy, anger, and hatred, they take their daily journey, till one of these also sleep in death. The other then lifts up his dejected head, and calls out in acclamations of joy — Oh, liberty! dear liberty!’

Mary’s face had fallen, and there seemed something more in her look than could be explained by the play. There was something in her eye that reminded me of a caged bird.

‘I will not marry,’ she said.

‘You mean to say, you will not fall in love,’ I said, moving closer to her.

‘Oh no!’ She looked abashed, then said with great sweetness and simplicity, ‘I am in love.’

‘Are in love!’ How I wished it could be so.

‘And with...’ Fanny said.

‘And with the Count? ’ I asked.

‘I wish I was.’

‘Why so? ’ I asked her tenderly.

‘Because he would, perhaps, love me again.’

‘Who is there that would not? ’ I asked, bending closer.

She leaned in towards me and said, ‘Would you? ’

I forgot my lines, and fell silent.

‘Ay, I see how it is,’ she went on. ‘You have no inclination to experience with me “the good part of matrimony”: I am not the female with whom you would like to go “hand in hand up hills, and through labyrinths”; with whom you would like to “root up thorns; and with whom you would delight to plant lilies and roses.” No, you had rather call out, “O liberty, dear liberty.” ’

‘Why do you force from me, what it is villainous to own?’ I cried. ‘I love you more than life. Oh, Amelia! had we lived in those golden times, which the poet’s picture, no one but you.’

No one but you. That is what I thought as I looked at her, with her eyes so bright. No one but you.

She seemed to feel it, too, for she could not go on until Fanny prompted her, and then made but an indifferent effort at the rest of the scene. My own efforts were no better, for I could think only, No one but you.

Fanny was kind. She said that, although we had missed some lines, our performance did us credit, and I found myself looking forward to a repetition of it when we should rehearse with the others in the evening.

The evening, however, brought a blow. Dr Grant was ill. It was not serious, but Mrs. Grant had to remain at home, which left us without a Cottager’s Wife. Everyone looked to Fanny, for we could not rehearse without Cottager’s Wife.

‘If Miss Price would read the part?’ said Yates.

‘Certainly, you would only have to read it, Fanny,’ said Crawford. ‘You would not need to act at all.’

‘And I do believe she can say every word of it,’ added Maria encouragingly, ‘for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part.’

Fanny was sweet and obliging, and although she did not like to act, she took the part so that the rehearsal might go ahead. I knew what it had cost her, and I thanked her for it warmly, and then it was time to begin.

Maria had got her lines by heart and needed no prompting. Crawford, too, knew his part well, and imbued it with a great deal of feeling, his voice carrying around the room. We had just got to the part where he seized Maria’s hand when the door was thrown open and we all turned towards it in surprise.

Julia stood there, with a face all aghast, exclaiming, ‘My father is come! He is in the hall at this moment.’

We looked at each other in stunned amazement! Our father? But he was not due back for another month! Then Tom, Maria, Julia and I, recovering ourselves, went to pay our respects to him in the drawing-room. And there he was, looking thinner, and burned by the sun, and tired after his journey, but pleased to be home.

We had hardly all greeted each other when he said, ‘But where is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?’ in such a kindly way that I loved him all the more. His stateliness had sometimes frightened her in the past, but his mood was so affectionate that I knew his notice would delight her.

Fanny stepped forward, and he embraced her, saying how much she had grown, and taking her over to the light so that he might see her better.

‘I have no need to ask after your health, for I have never seen you more blooming,’ he said.

‘And how are your family?’

‘Well, sir, I thank you.’

‘And how is William?’

‘He is well, sir.’

‘Has he been made Captain?’ he asked her with a smile.

‘No, sir,’ she said, adding, ‘not yet.’

He laughed, glad to see her so bold, for she did not have the courage to say two words to him before he went away.

He bade us all sit by the fire and then told us of his adventures: his perils on the voyage, with storms and calms, and his business in Antigua, which had at last prospered. He broke off now and then to say how lucky he was to find us all at home.

‘You must have something to eat, Sir Thomas,’ said my aunt. ‘I will ring for some dinner at once.’

‘No, no, I do not want to eat. I will wait for the tea to be brought in.’

‘And how was your passage to England, sir?’ asked Tom.

‘Ah, now that was not such plain sailing,’ he said. ‘We had any number of storms, but worse was to come. We saw a sail on the horizon, and suddenly the ship sprang into action, for she was a French privateer. As she drew closer... ’

‘Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea,’ broke in my aunt. ‘Do have a basin of soup.’

‘Still the same anxiety for everybody’s comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,’ said my father indulgently.