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By Root 709 0

night before, the funeral bell was already tolling from the tower of Mansfield church. He had dressed in his black coat, and now added the arm-band of crape, which was always carried with him in his luggage, and had seen much service over the years, before making his way to the Park to join the rest of the household now assembling in the hall. He did not put himself forward to pay his respects; indeed, it suited his purpose to remain silent and unattended to, and observe how the family conducted itself at such a pass. Sir Thomas, he saw, looked thin and haggard, the marks of his recent illness given stronger emphasis by his mourning clothes, and his son stood at his side, ready to offer his arm should that become necessary. Maddox had not thought to see the ladies of the house; in his experience, fashionable London ladies were never expected to attend family obsequies, but he suspected that the absence of Lady Bertram and her daughter might be attributed more to genuine feeling, than the mere observance of the proper etiquette. A few moments later a deeper and almost unnatural silence began to take possession of the room, and as the whispers died away, Maddox heard the sounds of the approaching horses.

The carriages came to a halt before the open door, the two hearses drawn by plumed horses, the first curtained in black, the second in maiden white. Maddox saw, with no little consternation, that the cortège was accompanied by Henry Crawford on horseback. The master of the house then took his place in the family carriage, and a few moments later the solemn procession began to make its slow way down the sweep. By the time they reached the church, the long line of servants following on foot had been considerably augmented by tenants from the Mansfield estate, and the carriages of the best local families, their blinds pulled down.

As the Mansfield footmen carried the two coffins into the nave, and Maddox took his own seat near the back of the church, he saw that Mrs Grant and her sister were already seated in the parsonage pew. He found it hard to believe that it was only a few days since he had last seen Mary Crawford, so changed was her appearance. Her face was drawn, and there was a hollowness about her eyes that did not augur well. He wondered, for a moment only, whether he might not be following the wrong course, but told himself that he was allowing his partiality for this woman to impede his professional judgment. Knowing what he did of Dr Grant, he could not hope for brief eulogia on the deceased, but all the same, he found himself unexpectedly affected by the signs of genuine grief that attended the clergyman’s account of Julia Bertram’s short life; her father and brother were visibly distressed, and her young maid, Polly Evans, wept inconsolably in Mrs Baddeley’s motherly arms.

When Dr Grant turned his attention to the late Mrs Crawford, Maddox was aware of an immediate and decided change in the mood in the church; there was little evidence of sorrow now, whether real or feigned, and the few murmurings that came to Maddox’s ears were expressions of sympathy for the plight of Mr Norris, a fact which he found both surprising and instructive. Nor did Maddox envy the clergyman his task: it was clear that, were it any other young woman but Sir Thomas’s niece, Dr Grant would have deemed it his Christian duty to present her fate as an awful warning to the congregation, and a caution against the evils of lust and avarice, but he was painfully constrained by the presence of his patron, and the demands of common politeness. It demanded all the ingenuity of a casuist to steer a safe course through such dangerous waters; to bury Mrs Crawford without praising her, and give an account of her life without referring to the husband who had seduced her, or the cousin who would be charged on the morrow with having done her to death. The husband, at least, had the good grace to appear abashed, and while Henry Crawford held his head high in the family pew, there was a spot of colour on each cheek that spoke either of a considerable suppressed