MANSFIELD PARK

(1814)

By Jane Austen


Contents

   CHAPTER I
   CHAPTER II
   CHAPTER III
   CHAPTER IV
   CHAPTER V
   CHAPTER VI
   CHAPTER VII
   CHAPTER VIII
   CHAPTER IX
   CHAPTER X
   CHAPTER XI
   CHAPTER XII
   CHAPTER XIII
   CHAPTER XIV
   CHAPTER XV
   CHAPTER XVI
   CHAPTER XVII
   CHAPTER XVIII
   CHAPTER XIX
   CHAPTER XX
   CHAPTER XXI
   CHAPTER XXII
   CHAPTER XXIII
   CHAPTER XXIV
   CHAPTER XXV
   CHAPTER XXVI
   CHAPTER XXVII
   CHAPTER XXVIII
   CHAPTER XXIX
   CHAPTER XXX
   CHAPTER XXXI
   CHAPTER XXXII
   CHAPTER XXXIII
   CHAPTER XXXIV
   CHAPTER XXXV
   CHAPTER XXXVI
   CHAPTER XXXVII
   CHAPTER XXXVIII
   CHAPTER XXXIX
   CHAPTER XL
   CHAPTER XLI
   CHAPTER XLII
   CHAPTER XLIII
   CHAPTER XLIV
   CHAPTER XLV
   CHAPTER XLVI
   CHAPTER XLVII
   CHAPTER XLVIII




CHAPTER I


About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven
thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of
Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised
to the rank of a baronet’s lady, with all the comforts and consequences
of an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon exclaimed on the
greatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her
to be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to
it. She had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of
their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as
handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with
almost equal advantage. But there certainly are not so many men of
large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them.
Miss Ward, at the end of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to
be attached to the Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law,
with scarcely any private fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse.
Miss Ward’s match, indeed, when it came to the point, was not
contemptible: Sir Thomas being happily able to give his friend an
income in the living of Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their
career of conjugal felicity with very little less than a thousand a
year. But Miss Frances married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her
family, and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines, without education,
fortune, or connexions, did it very thoroughly. She could hardly have
made a more untoward choice. Sir Thomas Bertram had interest, which,
from principle as well as pride—from a general wish of doing right, and
a desire of seeing all that were connected with him in situations of
respectability, he would have been glad to exert for the advantage of
Lady Bertram’s sister; but her husband’s profession was such as no
interest could reach; and before he had time to devise any other method
of assisting them, an absolute breach between the sisters had taken
place. It was the natural result of the conduct of each party, and such
as a very imprudent marriage almost always produces. To save herself
from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote to her family on the
subject till actually married. Lady Bertram, who was a woman of very
tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent, would
have contented herself with merely giving up her sister, and thinking
no more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of activity, which
could not be satisfied till she had written a long and angry letter to
Fanny, to point out the folly of her conduct, and threaten her with all
its possible ill consequences. Mrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and
angry; and an answer, which comprehended each sister in its bitterness,
and bestowed such very disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir
Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep to herself, put an end to
all intercourse between them for a considerable period.

Their homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so
distinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever hearing of each
other’s existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to
make it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have
it in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry
voice, that Fanny had got another child. By the end of eleven years,
however, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or
resentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her. A
large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active
service, but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very
small income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the
friends she had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady
Bertram in a letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence,
such a superfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything
else, as could not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was
preparing for her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance,
and imploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she
could not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future
maintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten
years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world;
but what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter
useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property? No
situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of
Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East?

The letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace and kindness.
Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram
dispatched money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more
important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was
often observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister
and her family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for
her, she seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not
but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from
the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number.
“What if they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest
daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more
attention than her poor mother could possibly give? The trouble and
expense of it to them would be nothing, compared with the benevolence
of the action.” Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly. “I think we
cannot do better,” said she; “let us send for the child.”

Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent.
He debated and hesitated;—it was a serious charge;—a girl so brought up
must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead of
kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four
children, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;—but no sooner had
he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris
interrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.

“My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the
generosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a
piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the
main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of
providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one’s own hands;
and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my
mite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I
look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the
children of my sisters?—and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just—but you
know I am a woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be
frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and
introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the
means of settling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of
ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up
in this neighbourhood without many advantages. I don’t say she would be
so handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be
introduced into the society of this country under such very favourable
circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable
establishment. You are thinking of your sons—but do not you know that,
of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought
up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is
morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the
only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty
girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence,
and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having
been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and
neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered
boys in love with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and
suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be
more to either than a sister.”

“There is a great deal of truth in what you say,” replied Sir Thomas,
“and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a
plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each.
I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and
that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to
ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged
to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision
of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so
sanguine in expecting.”

“I thoroughly understand you,” cried Mrs. Norris, “you are everything
that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree
on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready
enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never
feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your
own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I
should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a
sister’s child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of
bread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm
heart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of
life than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will
write to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon
as matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield;
_you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never
regard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed
at her cousin the saddler’s, and the child be appointed to meet her
there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach,
under the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I
dare say there is always some reputable tradesman’s wife or other going
up.”

Except to the attack on Nanny’s cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any
objection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous
being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled,
and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The
division of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have
been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and
consistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the
least intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance. As
far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly
benevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others;
but her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew
quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends.
Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look
forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of
economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon
grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude
which there were no children to supply. Had there been a family to
provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having
no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or
lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they
had never lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted
by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim
at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a
charity; though perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk
home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of
being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.

When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully
explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram’s calm inquiry of “Where shall
the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?” Sir Thomas heard
with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris’s power
to take any share in the personal charge of her. He had been
considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as
a desirable companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he
found himself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the
little girl’s staying with them, at least as things then were, was
quite out of the question. Poor Mr. Norris’s indifferent state of
health made it an impossibility: he could no more bear the noise of a
child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his
gouty complaints, it would be a different matter: she should then be
glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just
now, poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very
mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him.

“Then she had better come to us,” said Lady Bertram, with the utmost
composure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, “Yes, let
her home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and
she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age,
and of a regular instructress.”

“Very true,” cried Mrs. Norris, “which are both very important
considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she
has three girls to teach, or only two—there can be no difference. I
only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I
am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch
her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor
away for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the
little white attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best
place for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close
by the housemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you
know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think
it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I
do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else.”

Lady Bertram made no opposition.

“I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl,” continued Mrs. Norris,
“and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends.”

“Should her disposition be really bad,” said Sir Thomas, “we must not,
for our own children’s sake, continue her in the family; but there is
no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to
wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance,
some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner;
but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous
for her associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I
should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter
of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to
fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the
association.”

“That is exactly what I think,” cried Mrs. Norris, “and what I was
saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the
child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her
nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_.”

“I hope she will not tease my poor pug,” said Lady Bertram; “I have but
just got Julia to leave it alone.”

“There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,” observed Sir
Thomas, “as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as
they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the
consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of
their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make
her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see
them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls
the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they
cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will
always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must
assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of
conduct.”

Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed
with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope
that between them it would be easily managed.

It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her
sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should
be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer
most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter’s being a very
well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have
cause to throw her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate
and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better
for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might
agree with many of her children.




CHAPTER II


The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at
Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of
being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in
to the others, and recommending her to their kindness.

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might
not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least,
nothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no
glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid
and shy, and shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was
not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was
pretty. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir
Thomas, seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that
was conciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of
deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or
speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a
good-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the
two.

The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the
introduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at
least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall
of their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little
cousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in
greater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with
rather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to
company and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their
confidence increasing from their cousin’s total want of it, they were
soon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy
indifference.

They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the
daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of
their age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins
in person, as education had given to their address; and no one would
have supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There
were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia
Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little visitor
meanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of
herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to
look up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs.
Norris had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her
wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and
good behaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of
misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing
for her not to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became
soon no trifling evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of
Sir Thomas, and all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that
she would be a good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her
sit on the sofa with herself and pug, and vain was even the sight of a
gooseberry tart towards giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow
two mouthfuls before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her
likeliest friend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed.

“This is not a very promising beginning,” said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny
had left the room. “After all that I said to her as we came along, I
thought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend
upon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a
little sulkiness of temper—her poor mother had a good deal; but we must
make allowances for such a child—and I do not know that her being sorry
to leave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults, it
_was_ her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she has
changed for the better; but then there is moderation in all things.”

It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to
allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the
separation from everybody she had been used to. Her feelings were very
acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody
meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to
secure her comfort.

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to
afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their
young cousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap
on finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French;
and when they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were
so good as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous
present of some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself,
while they adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport
of the moment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the
drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something
to fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady
Bertram’s silence, awed by Sir Thomas’s grave looks, and quite overcome
by Mrs. Norris’s admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by
reflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss
Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her
clothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers
and sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,
instructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was
severe.

The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The
rooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched
she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of
something or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry;
and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left
it at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good
fortune, ended every day’s sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week
had passed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet
passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund,
the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.

“My dear little cousin,” said he, with all the gentleness of an
excellent nature, “what can be the matter?” And sitting down by her, he
was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and
persuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody angry with
her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled
about anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short,
want anything he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long
while no answer could be obtained beyond a “no, no—not at all—no, thank
you”; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert to
her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where the
grievance lay. He tried to console her.

“You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny,” said he, “which
shows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are
with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you
happy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about
your brothers and sisters.”

On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and
sisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her
thoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and
wanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her
constant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom he
was the darling) in every distress. “William did not like she should
come away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed.” “But
William will write to you, I dare say.” “Yes, he had promised he would,
but he had told _her_ to write first.” “And when shall you do it?” She
hung her head and answered hesitatingly, “she did not know; she had not
any paper.”

“If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and
every other material, and you may write your letter whenever you
choose. Would it make you happy to write to William?”

“Yes, very.”

“Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we
shall find everything there, and be sure of having the room to
ourselves.”

“But, cousin, will it go to the post?”

“Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and,
as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing.”

“My uncle!” repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.

“Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to
frank.”

Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and
they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her
paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother could
himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He
continued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with
his penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to
these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother
which delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand his
love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal.
Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself
incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words
fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to
find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all
that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and a
strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther
entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great
timidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that
she required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured, in
the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her
especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and
Julia, and being as merry as possible.

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a
friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits
with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less
formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not
cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the
best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and
awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the
tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away,
and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor
did her aunt Norris’s voice make her start very much. To her cousins
she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from
inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their
pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very
useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper;
and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults,
or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that “Fanny
was good-natured enough.”

Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure
on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of
seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just
entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal
dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and
enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his
situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and
laughed at her.

As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris
thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was
pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she
showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little
trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_.
Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing
more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which
they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and
for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh
report of it into the drawing-room. “Dear mama, only think, my cousin
cannot put the map of Europe together—or my cousin cannot tell the
principal rivers in Russia—or, she never heard of Asia Minor—or she
does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons!—How
strange!—Did you ever hear anything so stupid?”

“My dear,” their considerate aunt would reply, “it is very bad, but you
must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as
yourself.”

“But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!—Do you know, we asked her
last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she
should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle
of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other
island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if
I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot
remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the
least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat
the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of
their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!”

“Yes,” added the other; “and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus;
besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals,
semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.”

“Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful
memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a
vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and
therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her
deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever
yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already,
there is a great deal more for you to learn.”

“Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another
thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does
not want to learn either music or drawing.”

“To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great
want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know
whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know
(owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with
you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as
you are;—on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should
be a difference.”

Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her
nieces’ minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their
promising talents and early information, they should be entirely
deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity
and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught.
Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly
anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of
his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him.

To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest
attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent
her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece
of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug
than her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put
herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas,
and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater
leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed
it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with
proper masters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny’s being
stupid at learning, “she could only say it was very unlucky, but some
people _were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know
what else was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add
she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very
handy and quick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted.”

Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at
Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her
attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her
cousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though
Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too
lowly of her own claims to feel injured by it.

From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in
consequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave
up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring,
and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his
duty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort
might arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss
Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets,
and grow tall and womanly: and their father saw them becoming in
person, manner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his
anxiety. His eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already
given him much uneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing
but good. His daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of
Bertram, must be giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted,
would extend its respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund,
his strong good sense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for
utility, honour, and happiness to himself and all his connexions. He
was to be a clergyman.

Amid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested,
Sir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs.
Price: he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her
sons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny,
though almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the
truest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of
anything at all promising in their situation or conduct. Once, and once
only, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of being with
William. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her
ever going amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed
to want her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be a
sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire
before he went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their
exquisite delight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and
moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine
views and spirits of the boy even to the last, and the misery of the
girl when he left her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas
holidays, when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin
Edmund; and he told her such charming things of what William was to do,
and be hereafter, in consequence of his profession, as made her
gradually admit that the separation might have some use. Edmund’s
friendship never failed her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change
in his kind dispositions, and only afforded more frequent opportunities
of proving them. Without any display of doing more than the rest, or
any fear of doing too much, he was always true to her interests, and
considerate of her feelings, trying to make her good qualities
understood, and to conquer the diffidence which prevented their being
more apparent; giving her advice, consolation, and encouragement.

Kept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not
bring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest
importance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its
pleasures. He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as
well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly
directed, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French,
and heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended the
books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and
corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of
what she read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In
return for such services she loved him better than anybody in the world
except William: her heart was divided between the two.




CHAPTER III


The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr.
Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily
introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the
Parsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house
of Sir Thomas’s in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of
her husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and
for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter
economy.

The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few
years sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till
he were old enough for orders. But Tom’s extravagance had, previous to
that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next
presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for
the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually
held for Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement
somewhat easier to Sir Thomas’s conscience, he could not but feel it to
be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest
son with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better
effect than anything he had yet been able to say or do.

“I blush for you, Tom,” said he, in his most dignified manner; “I blush
for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your
feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten,
twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income
which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I
hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be
forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his
natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent
for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the
urgency of your debts.”

Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly
as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly,
that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends;
secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it;
and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in
all probability, die very soon.

On Mr. Norris’s death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,
who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a
hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram’s
calculations. But “no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of
fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off.”

He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they
entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very
respectable, agreeable people.

The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to
claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris’s situation,
and the improvement in Fanny’s age, seeming not merely to do away any
former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most
decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less
fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate,
in addition to his eldest son’s extravagance, it became not undesirable
to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the
obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that
such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the
first time of the subject’s occurring to her again happening to be when
Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, “So, Fanny, you are
going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?”

Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt’s words,
“Going to leave you?”

“Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years
with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.
But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same.”

The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She
had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love
her.

“I shall be very sorry to go away,” said she, with a faltering voice.

“Yes, I dare say you will; _that’s_ natural enough. I suppose you have
had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature
in the world.”

“I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,” said Fanny modestly.

“No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl.”

“And am I never to live here again?”

“Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make
very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the
other.”

Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the
difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt
with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she
told him her distress.

“Cousin,” said she, “something is going to happen which I do not like
at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to
things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I
am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to
leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as
she is removed there.”

“Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call
it an excellent one.”

“Oh, cousin!”

“It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a
sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and
companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does
not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does
not distress you very much, Fanny?”

“Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in
it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with
her.”

“I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the
same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to
children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she
is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you
_must_ be important to her.”

“I can never be important to any one.”

“What is to prevent you?”

“Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.”

“As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you
never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly.
There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where
you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure
you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without
wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a
friend and companion.”

“You are too kind,” said Fanny, colouring at such praise; “how shall I
ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I
am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my
life.”

“Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance
as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles
off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost
as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the
year. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will
necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are too
many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to
speak for yourself.”

“Oh! do not say so.”

“I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better
fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a
temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself
about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.”

Fanny sighed, and said, “I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to
believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged
to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose
my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of
consequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love
the place so well.”

“The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the
house. You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever.
Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a
nominal change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same
library to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to
ride.”

“Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how
much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked
of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle’s
opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind
pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince
me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you
proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well.”

“And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as
good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for
your ultimate happiness too.”

So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it
could render Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had
not the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her,
on the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To
prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation
which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish,
the White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her
servants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a very
particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been
wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now
never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save her from
being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of
the importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose
it really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a
certainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris—

“I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes
to live with you.”

Mrs. Norris almost started. “Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! what do
you mean?”

“Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir
Thomas.”

“Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to
me. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think of,
or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what
could I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for
anything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl at
her time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need
most attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test!
Sure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is
too much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would
propose it. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?”

“Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best.”

“But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny. I
am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.”

“No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We
both thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it,
there is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here.”

“Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any
comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best
of husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits
still worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough
to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as
not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed—what possible comfort
could I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish
it for my own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl.
She is in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through
my sorrows and difficulties as I can.”

“Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?”

“Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done,
but I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager. I
_have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed
to practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income.
A great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the
parish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was
consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House,
matters must be better looked after. I _must_ live within my income, or
I shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to
be able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year.”

“I dare say you will. You always do, don’t you?”

“My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me.
It is for your children’s good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody
else to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a
little trifle among them worth their having.”

“You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are
sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.”

“Why, you know, Sir Thomas’s means will be rather straitened if the
Antigua estate is to make such poor returns.”

“Oh! _that_ will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing about it,
I know.”

“Well, Lady Bertram,” said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, “I can only say
that my sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir
Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able
to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question;
besides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I must
keep a spare room for a friend.”

Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to
convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law’s views; and
she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the
slightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her
refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to
adopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady
Bertram, understand that whatever she possessed was designed for their
family, he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same
time that it was advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable
him better to provide for Fanny himself.

Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal; and
her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed some
consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to
be so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of
the White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events
over, everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.

The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave
great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had
their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very
fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant,
instead of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook
as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen
in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such
grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly
consumed in the house. “Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than
herself; nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed,
had never been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad
character in _her_ _time_, but this was a way of going on that she
could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out
of place. _Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enough
for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find
out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds.”

Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective.
She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all
the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant’s being so well settled in life
without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point
almost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the
other.

These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event
arose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some
place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found
it expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of
his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of
detaching him from some bad connexions at home. They left England with
the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.

The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its
utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the
rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of
others at their present most interesting time of life. He could not
think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or
rather, to perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris’s
watchful attention, and in Edmund’s judgment, he had sufficient
confidence to make him go without fears for their conduct.

Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she
was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his
comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous,
or difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.

The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their
sorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to
them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his
absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all
restraint; and without aiming at one gratification that would probably
have been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at
their own disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach.
Fanny’s relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her
cousins’; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were
ungrateful, and she really grieved because she could not grieve. “Sir
Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone
perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it
was a shameful insensibility.” He had said to her, moreover, on the
very last morning, that he hoped she might see William again in the
course of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite
him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be
known to be in England. “This was so thoughtful and kind!” and would he
only have smiled upon her, and called her “my dear Fanny,” while he
said it, every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten.
But he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification,
by adding, “If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able
to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted
have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement; though,
I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much
like his sister at ten.” She cried bitterly over this reflection when
her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set
her down as a hypocrite.




CHAPTER IV


Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he
could be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished to
find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund
could supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to
the attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her from
all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of
directing her letters.

The earliest intelligence of the travellers’ safe arrival at Antigua,
after a favourable voyage, was received; though not before Mrs. Norris
had been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund
participate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended
on being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe,
she had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others,
when Sir Thomas’s assurances of their both being alive and well made it
necessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches
for a while.

The winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts
continued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for
her nieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments,
and looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in
addition to all her own household cares, some interference in those of
her sister, and Mrs. Grant’s wasteful doings to overlook, left her very
little occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the
neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements
a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and
obligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration.
Their vanity was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free
from it, and gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such
behaviour, secured and brought round by their aunt, served to
strengthen them in believing they had no faults.

Lady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters. She was too
indolent even to accept a mother’s gratification in witnessing their
success and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the
charge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a
post of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished
the means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to
hire.

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed
being avowedly useful as her aunt’s companion when they called away the
rest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally
became everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a
party. She talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the
tranquillity of such evenings, her perfect security in such a
_tête-à-tête_ from any sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to
a mind which had seldom known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments.
As to her cousins’ gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them,
especially of the balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought
too lowly of her own situation to imagine she should ever be admitted
to the same, and listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer
concern in them. Upon the whole, it was a comfortable winter to her;
for though it brought no William to England, the never-failing hope of
his arrival was worth much.

The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey
pony; and for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her
health as well as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged
importance of her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken for
mounting her again, “because,” as it was observed by her aunts, “she
might ride one of her cousin’s horses at any time when they did not
want them,” and as the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses
every fine day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners to
the sacrifice of any real pleasure, that time, of course, never came.
They took their cheerful rides in the fine mornings of April and May;
and Fanny either sat at home the whole day with one aunt, or walked
beyond her strength at the instigation of the other: Lady Bertram
holding exercise to be as unnecessary for everybody as it was
unpleasant to herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day,
thinking everybody ought to walk as much. Edmund was absent at this
time, or the evil would have been earlier remedied. When he returned,
to understand how Fanny was situated, and perceived its ill effects,
there seemed with him but one thing to be done; and that “Fanny must
have a horse” was the resolute declaration with which he opposed
whatever could be urged by the supineness of his mother, or the economy
of his aunt, to make it appear unimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help
thinking that some steady old thing might be found among the numbers
belonging to the Park that would do vastly well; or that one might be
borrowed of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then
lend them the pony he sent to the post. She could not but consider it
as absolutely unnecessary, and even improper, that Fanny should have a
regular lady’s horse of her own, in the style of her cousins. She was
sure Sir Thomas had never intended it: and she must say that, to be
making such a purchase in his absence, and adding to the great expenses
of his stable, at a time when a large part of his income was unsettled,
seemed to her very unjustifiable. “Fanny must have a horse,” was
Edmund’s only reply. Mrs. Norris could not see it in the same light.
Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son as to the necessity
of it, and as to its being considered necessary by his father; she only
pleaded against there being any hurry; she only wanted him to wait till
Sir Thomas’s return, and then Sir Thomas might settle it all himself.
He would be at home in September, and where would be the harm of only
waiting till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his
mother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could not help
paying more attention to what she said; and at length determined on a
method of proceeding which would obviate the risk of his father’s
thinking he had done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny
the immediate means of exercise, which he could not bear she should be
without. He had three horses of his own, but not one that would carry a
woman. Two of them were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse: this
third he resolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride; he
knew where such a one was to be met with; and having once made up his
mind, the whole business was soon completed. The new mare proved a
treasure; with a very little trouble she became exactly calculated for
the purpose, and Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her.
She had not supposed before that anything could ever suit her like the
old grey pony; but her delight in Edmund’s mare was far beyond any
former pleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving in
the consideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was
beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example
of everything good and great, as possessing worth which no one but
herself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from
her as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments
towards him were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful,
confiding, and tender.

As the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of
Edmund, Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny’s use; and had
Lady Bertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have
been excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas’s return in
September, for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and
without any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable
circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to
turn all his thoughts towards England; and the very great uncertainty
in which everything was then involved determined him on sending home
his son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arrived
safely, bringing an excellent account of his father’s health; but to
very little purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas’s
sending away his son seemed to her so like a parent’s care, under the
influence of a foreboding of evil to himself, that she could not help
feeling dreadful presentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came
on, was so terribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of
her cottage, as to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room
of the Park. The return of winter engagements, however, was not without
its effect; and in the course of their progress, her mind became so
pleasantly occupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece,
as tolerably to quiet her nerves. “If poor Sir Thomas were fated never
to return, it would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria
well married,” she very often thought; always when they were in the
company of men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of a
young man who had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and
finest places in the country.

Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss
Bertram, and, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He
was a heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there
was nothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was
well pleased with her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year,
Maria Bertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a
marriage with Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger
income than her father’s, as well as ensure her the house in town,
which was now a prime object, it became, by the same rule of moral
obligation, her evident duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs.
Norris was most zealous in promoting the match, by every suggestion and
contrivance likely to enhance its desirableness to either party; and,
among other means, by seeking an intimacy with the gentleman’s mother,
who at present lived with him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram
to go through ten miles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It
was not long before a good understanding took place between this lady
and herself. Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that her
son should marry, and declared that of all the young ladies she had
ever seen, Miss Bertram seemed, by her amiable qualities and
accomplishments, the best adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris
accepted the compliment, and admired the nice discernment of character
which could so well distinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and
delight of them all—perfectly faultless—an angel; and, of course, so
surrounded by admirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as
far as Mrs. Norris could allow herself to decide on so short an
acquaintance, Mr. Rushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve
and attach her.

After dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young
people justified these opinions, and an engagement, with a due
reference to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the
satisfaction of their respective families, and of the general
lookers-on of the neighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the
expediency of Mr. Rushworth’s marrying Miss Bertram.

It was some months before Sir Thomas’s consent could be received; but,
in the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure
in the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried on
without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs.
Norris’s talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at
present.

Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the
business; but no representation of his aunt’s could induce him to find
Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to be
the best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her
happiness should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from
often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth’s company—“If this man had
not twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow.”

Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance so
unquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the
perfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right
sort—in the same county, and the same interest—and his most hearty
concurrence was conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that
the marriage should not take place before his return, which he was
again looking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong
hopes of settling everything to his entire satisfaction, and leaving
Antigua before the end of the summer.

Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just
reached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received
an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss
Crawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were
young people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the
daughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been
always very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon
followed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the
care of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she
had scarcely seen them since. In their uncle’s house they had found a
kind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,
were united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no
farther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite,
to whom they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral
delighted in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the
lady’s death which now obliged her _protegee_, after some months’
further trial at her uncle’s house, to find another home. Admiral
Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining
his niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs.
Grant was indebted for her sister’s proposal of coming to her, a
measure quite as welcome on one side as it could be expedient on the
other; for Mrs. Grant, having by this time run through the usual
resources of ladies residing in the country without a family of
children—having more than filled her favourite sitting-room with pretty
furniture, and made a choice collection of plants and poultry—was very
much in want of some variety at home. The arrival, therefore, of a
sister whom she had always loved, and now hoped to retain with her as
long as she remained single, was highly agreeable; and her chief
anxiety was lest Mansfield should not satisfy the habits of a young
woman who had been mostly used to London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though
they arose principally from doubts of her sister’s style of living and
tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to
persuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house, that
she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations. To
anything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry
Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike: he could not accommodate his
sister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the
utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch
her away again, at half an hour’s notice, whenever she were weary of
the place.

The meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss Crawford found a
sister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister’s husband who looked
the gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs.
Grant received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young
man and woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was
remarkably pretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance;
the manners of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant
immediately gave them credit for everything else. She was delighted
with each, but Mary was her dearest object; and having never been able
to glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of
being proud of her sister’s. She had not waited her arrival to look out
for a suitable match for her: she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest
son of a baronet was not too good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds,
with all the elegance and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in
her; and being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been
three hours in the house before she told her what she had planned.

Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very
near them, and not at all displeased either at her sister’s early care,
or the choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she
could marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that
objection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in
life. While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to
think of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.

“And now,” added Mrs. Grant, “I have thought of something to make it
complete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and
therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice,
handsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very
happy.”

Henry bowed and thanked her.

“My dear sister,” said Mary, “if you can persuade him into anything of
the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself
allied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have not
half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry to
marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English
abilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular
friends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains
which they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt
and myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is
inconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If
your Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them
avoid Henry.”

“My dear brother, I will not believe this of you.”

“No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You will
allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious
temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can think
more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the
blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of
the poet—‘Heaven’s _last_ best gift.’”

“There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look at
his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral’s lessons
have quite spoiled him.”

“I pay very little regard,” said Mrs. Grant, “to what any young person
says on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for
it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.”

Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no
disinclination to the state herself.

“Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if
they can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw themselves
away; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to
advantage.”




CHAPTER V


The young people were pleased with each other from the first. On each
side there was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as
early an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford’s beauty
did her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome
themselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were almost as
much charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown
complexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and
fair, it might have been more of a trial: but as it was, there could be
no comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while
they were the finest young women in the country.

Her brother was not handsome: no, when they first saw him he was
absolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with
a pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain: he
was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his
teeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he
was plain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with
him at the Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by
anybody. He was, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had
ever known, and they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram’s
engagement made him in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was
fully aware; and before he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite
ready to be fallen in love with.

Maria’s notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct. She
did not want to see or understand. “There could be no harm in her
liking an agreeable man—everybody knew her situation—Mr. Crawford must
take care of himself.” Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger!
the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased;
and he began with no object but of making them like him. He did not
want them to die of love; but with sense and temper which ought to have
made him judge and feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on
such points.

“I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister,” said he, as he
returned from attending them to their carriage after the said dinner
visit; “they are very elegant, agreeable girls.”

“So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But you
like Julia best.”

“Oh yes! I like Julia best.”

“But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the
handsomest.”

“So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I
prefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is
certainly the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but
I shall always like Julia best, because you order me.”

“I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you _will_ like her best at
last.”

“Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?”

“And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother.
Her choice is made.”

“Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more
agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares
are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing
without suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be
done.”

“Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and
it is a great match for her.”

“But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your
opinion of your intimate friend. _I_ do not subscribe to it. I am sure
Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in
her eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to
suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart.”

“Mary, how shall we manage him?”

“We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does no good. He will
be taken in at last.”

“But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I
would have it all fair and honourable.”

“Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as
well. Everybody is taken in at some period or other.”

“Not always in marriage, dear Mary.”

“In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of the present
company as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one
in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look
where I will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so,
when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which
people expect most from others, and are least honest themselves.”

“Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street.”

“My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but,
however, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring
business. I know so many who have married in the full expectation and
confidence of some one particular advantage in the connexion, or
accomplishment, or good quality in the person, who have found
themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly
the reverse. What is this but a take in?”

“My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your
pardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend upon it, you see but
half. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will
be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to
expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human
nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a
second better: we find comfort somewhere—and those evil-minded
observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in
and deceived than the parties themselves.”

“Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a
wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in
general would be so too. It would save me many a heartache.”

“You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both.
Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us,
and we will cure you.”

The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay.
Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry
equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend
only a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was
nothing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them
both with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it
so: a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant
society to an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford’s being his
guest was an excuse for drinking claret every day.

The Miss Bertrams’ admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than
anything which Miss Crawford’s habits made her likely to feel. She
acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,
that two such young men were not often seen together even in London,
and that their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very
good. _He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and
gallantry than Edmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed,
his being the eldest was another strong claim. She had felt an early
presentiment that she _should_ like the eldest best. She knew it was
her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he
was the sort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was
of the kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a
higher stamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large
acquaintance, and a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield
Park, and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt
that he and his situation might do. She looked about her with due
consideration, and found almost everything in his favour: a park, a
real park, five miles round, a spacious modern-built house, so well
placed and well screened as to deserve to be in any collection of
engravings of gentlemen’s seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be
completely new furnished—pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an
agreeable man himself—with the advantage of being tied up from much
gaming at present by a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas
hereafter. It might do very well; she believed she should accept him;
and she began accordingly to interest herself a little about the horse
which he had to run at the B—— races.

These races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance
began; and as it appeared that the family did not, from his usual
goings on, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his
passion to an early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to
attend the races, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with
all the eagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.

And Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what
was _her_ opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could
be less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way,
very little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss
Crawford’s beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford
very plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the
contrary, she never mentioned _him_. The notice, which she excited
herself, was to this effect. “I begin now to understand you all, except
Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr.
Bertrams. “Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled. She dined at
the Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_; and
yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_.”

Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, “I believe I know
what you mean, but I will not undertake to answer the question. My
cousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs
and not outs are beyond me.”

“And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. The
distinction is so broad. Manners as well as appearance are, generally
speaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it
possible to be mistaken as to a girl’s being out or not. A girl not out
has always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks
very demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I
assure you; and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far,
it is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. The most
objectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being
introduced into company is frequently too sudden. They sometimes pass
in such very little time from reserve to quite the opposite—to
confidence! _That_ is the faulty part of the present system. One does
not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to
every thing—and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the
year before. Mr. Bertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with such
changes.”

“I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at. You
are quizzing me and Miss Anderson.”

“No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I am
quite in the dark. But I _will_ quiz you with a great deal of pleasure,
if you will tell me what about.”

“Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed
on. You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an
altered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was
exactly so. The Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the
other day, you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles
Anderson. The circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented
it. When Anderson first introduced me to his family, about two years
ago, his sister was not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me.
I sat there an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and
a little girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away,
and the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I
could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady—nothing like a
civil answer—she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an
air! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then _out_. I
met her at Mrs. Holford’s, and did not recollect her. She came up to
me, claimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and
talked and laughed till I did not know which way to look. I felt that I
must be the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is
plain, has heard the story.”

“And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say,
than does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too common a fault. Mothers
certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their
daughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set
people right, but I do see that they are often wrong.”

“Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be,” said
Mr. Bertram gallantly, “are doing a great deal to set them right.”

“The error is plain enough,” said the less courteous Edmund; “such
girls are ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the
beginning. They are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is
no more real modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public
than afterwards.”

“I do not know,” replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. “Yes, I cannot
agree with you there. It is certainly the modestest part of the
business. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the
same airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which I have
seen done. That is worse than anything—quite disgusting!”

“Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed,” said Mr. Bertram. “It leads
one astray; one does not know what to do. The close bonnet and demure
air you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what
is expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want
of them. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last
September, just after my return from the West Indies. My friend
Sneyd—you have heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund—his father, and mother,
and sisters, were there, all new to me. When we reached Albion Place
they were out; we went after them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and
the two Miss Sneyds, with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow
in form; and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached myself to
one of her daughters, walked by her side all the way home, and made
myself as agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in her
manners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that
I could be doing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both
well-dressed, with veils and parasols like other girls; but I
afterwards found that I had been giving all my attention to the
youngest, who was not _out_, and had most excessively offended the
eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticed for the next six
months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never forgiven me.”

“That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though I have no younger sister,
I feel for her. To be neglected before one’s time must be very
vexatious; but it was entirely the mother’s fault. Miss Augusta should
have been with her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prosper.
But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls?
Does she dine out every where, as well as at my sister’s?”

“No,” replied Edmund; “I do not think she has ever been to a ball. My
mother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but with
Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_.”

“Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out.”




CHAPTER VI


Mr. Bertram set off for————, and Miss Crawford was prepared to find a
great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the meetings
which were now becoming almost daily between the families; and on their
all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she retook her
chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to feel a
most melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would be a very
flat business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother, Edmund
would have nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most
spiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling,
and the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any
former haunch, or a single entertaining story, about “my friend such a
one.” She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the upper
end of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now making
his appearance at Mansfield for the first time since the Crawfords’
arrival. He had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and
that friend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver,
Mr. Rushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and very
eager to be improving his own place in the same way; and though not
saying much to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had
been already handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the
dining-parlour. Miss Bertram’s attention and opinion was evidently his
chief aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious
superiority than any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of Sotherton
Court, and the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency,
which prevented her from being very ungracious.

“I wish you could see Compton,” said he; “it is the most complete
thing! I never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I did
not know where I was. The approach _now_, is one of the finest things
in the country: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I
declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a
prison—quite a dismal old prison.”

“Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Norris. “A prison indeed? Sotherton Court
is the noblest old place in the world.”

“It wants improvement, ma’am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that
wanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do
not know what can be done with it.”

“No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,” said Mrs.
Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; “but depend upon it, Sotherton will
have _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire.”

“I must try to do something with it,” said Mr. Rushworth, “but I do not
know what. I hope I shall have some good friend to help me.”

“Your best friend upon such an occasion,” said Miss Bertram calmly,
“would be Mr. Repton, I imagine.”

“That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I
think I had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day.”

“Well, and if they were _ten_,” cried Mrs. Norris, “I am sure _you_
need not regard it. The expense need not be any impediment. If I were
you, I should not think of the expense. I would have everything done in
the best style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton
Court deserves everything that taste and money can do. You have space
to work upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own
part, if I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of
Sotherton, I should be always planting and improving, for naturally I
am excessively fond of it. It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt
anything where I am now, with my little half acre. It would be quite a
burlesque. But if I had more room, I should take a prodigious delight
in improving and planting. We did a vast deal in that way at the
Parsonage: we made it quite a different place from what it was when we
first had it. You young ones do not remember much about it, perhaps;
but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements
we made: and a great deal more would have been done, but for poor Mr.
Norris’s sad state of health. He could hardly ever get out, poor man,
to enjoy anything, and _that_ disheartened me from doing several things
that Sir Thomas and I used to talk of. If it had not been for _that_,
we should have carried on the garden wall, and made the plantation to
shut out the churchyard, just as Dr. Grant has done. We were always
doing something as it was. It was only the spring twelvemonth before
Mr. Norris’s death that we put in the apricot against the stable wall,
which is now grown such a noble tree, and getting to such perfection,
sir,” addressing herself then to Dr. Grant.

“The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam,” replied Dr. Grant. “The
soil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit
should be so little worth the trouble of gathering.”

“Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost
us—that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill—and I
know it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park.”

“You were imposed on, ma’am,” replied Dr. Grant: “these potatoes have
as much the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree.
It is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable,
which none from my garden are.”

“The truth is, ma’am,” said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across
the table to Mrs. Norris, “that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural
taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it
is so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a
remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves,
my cook contrives to get them all.”

Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little
while, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton. Dr.
Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had
begun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.

After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. “Smith’s place is
the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before
Repton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton.”

“Mr. Rushworth,” said Lady Bertram, “if I were you, I would have a very
pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine
weather.”

Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and
tried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission
to _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with
the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies
in general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was
anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end
to his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not
usually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next his
heart. “Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his
grounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the
place can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven
hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so
much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two
or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and it
opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or
anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton
down: the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill,
you know,” turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss
Bertram thought it most becoming to reply—

“The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of
Sotherton.”

Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite
Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at
him, and said in a low voice—

“Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper?
‘Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.’”

He smiled as he answered, “I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance,
Fanny.”

“I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place
as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall.”

“Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is
out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it.”

“Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it
has been altered.”

“I collect,” said Miss Crawford, “that Sotherton is an old place, and a
place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?”

“The house was built in Elizabeth’s time, and is a large, regular,
brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good
rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the
park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are
fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good
deal of. Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a
modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely
well.”

Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, “He is a
well-bred man; he makes the best of it.”

“I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth,” he continued; “but, had I a
place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an
improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own
choice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own
blunders than by his.”

“_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not
suit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are
before me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most
thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much
beauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it
was complete.”

“It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all,” said
Fanny.

“Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education;
and the only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first
favourite in the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_
as the greatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured
uncle, bought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers
in; and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being
excessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for
three months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to
step on, or a bench fit for use. I would have everything as complete as
possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic
seats innumerable: but it must all be done without my care. Henry is
different; he loves to be doing.”

Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to
admire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of
propriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and
liveliness to put the matter by for the present.

“Mr. Bertram,” said she, “I have tidings of my harp at last. I am
assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been
these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often
received to the contrary.” Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise.
“The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant,
we went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this
morning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer,
and he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the
butcher’s son-in-law left word at the shop.”

“I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope
there will be no further delay.”

“I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed?
Not by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in
the village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow.”

“You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a
very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?”

“I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want
a horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to
speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet
without seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing
another, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather
grieved that I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise,
when I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most
impossible thing in the world; had offended all the farmers, all the
labourers, all the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant’s bailiff, I
believe I had better keep out of _his_ way; and my brother-in-law
himself, who is all kindness in general, looked rather black upon me
when he found what I had been at.”

“You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but
when you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance of getting in
the grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you
suppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in
harvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse.”

“I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the
true London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a
little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country
customs. However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is
good-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it
not be honourably conveyed?”

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be
soon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and
wished for it very much.

“I shall be most happy to play to you both,” said Miss Crawford; “at
least as long as you can like to listen: probably much longer, for I
dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the
player must always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than
one. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to
tell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it.
And you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive
airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his
horse will lose.”

“If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present,
foresee any occasion for writing.”

“No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you
ever write to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped. The occasion
would never be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would
not write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the
world; and when obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is
ill, or such a relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words.
You have but one style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in
every other respect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me,
consults me, confides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together,
has never yet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing
more than—‘Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and
everything as usual. Yours sincerely.’ That is the true manly style;
that is a complete brother’s letter.”

“When they are at a distance from all their family,” said Fanny,
colouring for William’s sake, “they can write long letters.”

“Miss Price has a brother at sea,” said Edmund, “whose excellence as a
correspondent makes her think you too severe upon us.”

“At sea, has she? In the king’s service, of course?”

Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined
silence obliged her to relate her brother’s situation: her voice was
animated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had
been on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been
absent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an
early promotion.

“Do you know anything of my cousin’s captain?” said Edmund; “Captain
Marshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?”

“Among admirals, large enough; but,” with an air of grandeur, “we know
very little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort
of men, but they do not belong to _us_. Of various admirals I could
tell you a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of
their pay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can
assure you that they are all passed over, and all very ill used.
Certainly, my home at my uncle’s brought me acquainted with a circle of
admirals. Of _Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting
me of a pun, I entreat.”

Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, “It is a noble profession.”

“Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make
the fortune, and there be discretion in spending it; but, in short, it
is not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable
form to _me_.”

Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect
of hearing her play.

The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under
consideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could not help
addressing her brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss
Julia Bertram.

“My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say? You have been an improver
yourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place
in England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham, as
it _used_ to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fall of
ground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again!”

“Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it,”
was his answer; “but I fear there would be some disappointment: you
would not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere
nothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for
improvement, there was very little for me to do—too little: I should
like to have been busy much longer.”

“You are fond of the sort of thing?” said Julia.

“Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which
pointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done,
and my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three months
before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was laid at
Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at
one-and-twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having
so much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own.”

“Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly,” said
Julia. “_You_ can never want employment. Instead of envying Mr.
Rushworth, you should assist him with your opinion.”

Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced it warmly,
persuaded that no judgment could be equal to her brother’s; and as Miss
Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support,
declaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult
with friends and disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the
business into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very
ready to request the favour of Mr. Crawford’s assistance; and Mr.
Crawford, after properly depreciating his own abilities, was quite at
his service in any way that could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began
to propose Mr. Crawford’s doing him the honour of coming over to
Sotherton, and taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in
her two nieces’ minds their little approbation of a plan which was to
take Mr. Crawford away, interposed with an amendment.

“There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford’s willingness; but why should
not more of us go? Why should not we make a little party? Here are many
that would be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth,
and that would like to hear Mr. Crawford’s opinion on the spot, and
that might be of some small use to you with _their_ opinions; and, for
my own part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good mother
again; nothing but having no horses of my own could have made me so
remiss; but now I could go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth,
while the rest of you walked about and settled things, and then we
could all return to a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as
might be most agreeable to your mother, and have a pleasant drive home
by moonlight. I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me
in his barouche, and Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and
Fanny will stay at home with you.”

Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in the going
was forward in expressing their ready concurrence, excepting Edmund,
who heard it all and said nothing.




CHAPTER VII


“Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?” said Edmund the
next day, after thinking some time on the subject himself. “How did you
like her yesterday?”

“Very well—very much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me; and
she is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking at
her.”

“It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play
of feature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you,
Fanny, as not quite right?”

“Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did. I was
quite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been living so many years,
and who, whatever his faults may be, is so very fond of her brother,
treating him, they say, quite like a son. I could not have believed
it!”

“I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong; very indecorous.”

“And very ungrateful, I think.”

“Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any
claim to her _gratitude_; his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth
of her respect for her aunt’s memory which misleads her here. She is
awkwardly circumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it
must be difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford,
without throwing a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to know which
was most to blame in their disagreements, though the Admiral’s present
conduct might incline one to the side of his wife; but it is natural
and amiable that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely. I do
not censure her _opinions_; but there certainly _is_ impropriety in
making them public.”

“Do not you think,” said Fanny, after a little consideration, “that
this impropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford, as her
niece has been entirely brought up by her? She cannot have given her
right notions of what was due to the Admiral.”

“That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults of the niece to
have been those of the aunt; and it makes one more sensible of the
disadvantages she has been under. But I think her present home must do
her good. Mrs. Grant’s manners are just what they ought to be. She
speaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection.”

“Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters. She made me
almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the love or good-nature
of a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything
worth reading to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure
William would never have used _me_ so, under any circumstances. And
what right had she to suppose that _you_ would not write long letters
when you were absent?”

“The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may contribute to
its own amusement or that of others; perfectly allowable, when
untinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of
either in the countenance or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sharp, or
loud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances we
have been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw
it all as I did.”

Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance
of her thinking like him; though at this period, and on this subject,
there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a
line of admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny
could not follow. Miss Crawford’s attractions did not lessen. The harp
arrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for she
played with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste
which were peculiarly becoming, and there was something clever to be
said at the close of every air. Edmund was at the Parsonage every day,
to be indulged with his favourite instrument: one morning secured an
invitation for the next; for the lady could not be unwilling to have a
listener, and every thing was soon in a fair train.

A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and
both placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a
little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was
enough to catch any man’s heart. The season, the scene, the air, were
all favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour
frame were not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as
everything will turn to account when love is once set going, even the
sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth
looking at. Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he
was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such
intercourse, to be a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady
it may be added that, without his being a man of the world or an elder
brother, without any of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small
talk, he began to be agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she
had not foreseen, and could hardly understand it; for he was not
pleasant by any common rule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no
compliments; his opinions were unbending, his attentions tranquil and
simple. There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness,
his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be equal to feel, though not
equal to discuss with herself. She did not think very much about it,
however: he pleased her for the present; she liked to have him near
her; it was enough.

Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning;
she would gladly have been there too, might she have gone in uninvited
and unnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that, when
the evening stroll was over, and the two families parted again, he
should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their
home, while Mr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she
thought it a very bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the
wine and water for her, would rather go without it than not. She was a
little surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford,
and not see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed,
and of which _she_ was almost always reminded by a something of the
same nature whenever she was in her company; but so it was. Edmund was
fond of speaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it
enough that the Admiral had since been spared; and she scrupled to
point out her own remarks to him, lest it should appear like
ill-nature. The first actual pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her
was the consequence of an inclination to learn to ride, which the
former caught, soon after her being settled at Mansfield, from the
example of the young ladies at the Park, and which, when Edmund’s
acquaintance with her increased, led to his encouraging the wish, and
the offer of his own quiet mare for the purpose of her first attempts,
as the best fitted for a beginner that either stable could furnish. No
pain, no injury, however, was designed by him to his cousin in this
offer: _she_ was not to lose a day’s exercise by it. The mare was only
to be taken down to the Parsonage half an hour before her ride were to
begin; and Fanny, on its being first proposed, so far from feeling
slighted, was almost over-powered with gratitude that he should be
asking her leave for it.

Miss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to herself, and no
inconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down the mare and
presided at the whole, returned with it in excellent time, before
either Fanny or the steady old coachman, who always attended her when
she rode without her cousins, were ready to set forward. The second
day’s trial was not so guiltless. Miss Crawford’s enjoyment of riding
was such that she did not know how to leave off. Active and fearless,
and though rather small, strongly made, she seemed formed for a
horsewoman; and to the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise, something
was probably added in Edmund’s attendance and instructions, and
something more in the conviction of very much surpassing her sex in
general by her early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny
was ready and waiting, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for
not being gone, and still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared.
To avoid her aunt, and look for him, she went out.

The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of
each other; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door, she could
look down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its
demesnes, gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant’s
meadow she immediately saw the group—Edmund and Miss Crawford both on
horse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford,
with two or three grooms, standing about and looking on. A happy party
it appeared to her, all interested in one object: cheerful beyond a
doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound
which did not make _her_ cheerful; she wondered that Edmund should
forget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes from the
meadow; she could not help watching all that passed. At first Miss
Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field, which was not
small, at a foot’s pace; then, at _her_ apparent suggestion, they rose
into a canter; and to Fanny’s timid nature it was most astonishing to
see how well she sat. After a few minutes they stopped entirely. Edmund
was close to her; he was speaking to her; he was evidently directing
her management of the bridle; he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or
the imagination supplied what the eye could not reach. She must not
wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that Edmund should
be making himself useful, and proving his good-nature by any one? She
could not but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved
him the trouble; that it would have been particularly proper and
becoming in a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with
all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knew
nothing of the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of
Edmund. She began to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such
double duty; if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.

Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised by
seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on
horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the
lane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood.
She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked
to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion.

“My dear Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all
within hearing, “I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you
waiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myself—I knew it
was very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if
you please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven,
you know, because there is no hope of a cure.”

Fanny’s answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction
that she could be in no hurry. “For there is more than time enough for
my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes,” said he, “and you
have been promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half
an hour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from
the heat as she would have done then. I wish _you_ may not be fatigued
by so much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home.”

“No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you,”
said she, as she sprang down with his help; “I am very strong. Nothing
ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way
to you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a
pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this
dear, delightful, beautiful animal.”

The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now
joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another
part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing,
as she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together
to the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments
on Miss Crawford’s great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been
watching with an interest almost equal to her own.

“It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!”
said he. “I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have
a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began,
six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble
when Sir Thomas first had you put on!”

In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in
being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated
by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her
early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure
in praising it.

“I was sure she would ride well,” said Julia; “she has the make for it.
Her figure is as neat as her brother’s.”

“Yes,” added Maria, “and her spirits are as good, and she has the same
energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a
great deal to do with the mind.”

When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride
the next day.

“No, I do not know—not if you want the mare,” was her answer.

“I do not want her at all for myself,” said he; “but whenever you are
next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to
have her a longer time—for a whole morning, in short. She has a great
desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling
her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal
to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry
to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides
only for pleasure; _you_ for health.”

“I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly,” said Fanny; “I have been out
very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong
enough now to walk very well.”

Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny’s comfort, and the ride to
Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all
the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and
doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of
this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield
Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There
were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot,
there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is
always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were
spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing
the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety
and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be
talked of with pleasure—till the fourth day, when the happiness of one
of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund
and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was
excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect
good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth’s account, who was partly expected at the
Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good
manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she
reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was
increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over
him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and
throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert.

Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room,
fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of
what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would
scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was
half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece’s
ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner,
which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say
no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in
their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think
beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking
around, said, “But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?”

“No, not that I know of,” replied Mrs. Norris; “she was here a moment
ago.”

Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was
a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began
scolding.

“That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening
upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as
_we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the
poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week,
not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out.
You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it
is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a
sofa.”

Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table,
and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high
good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of
exclaiming, “I must say, ma’am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa
as anybody in the house.”

“Fanny,” said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, “I am sure you
have the headache.”

She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.

“I can hardly believe you,” he replied; “I know your looks too well.
How long have you had it?”

“Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat.”

“Did you go out in the heat?”

“Go out! to be sure she did,” said Mrs. Norris: “would you have her
stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your
mother was out to-day for above an hour.”

“Yes, indeed, Edmund,” added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly
awakened by Mrs. Norris’s sharp reprimand to Fanny; “I was out above an
hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny
cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It
was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the
coming home again.”

“Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?”

“Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing!
_She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could
not wait.”

“There was no help for it, certainly,” rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a
rather softened voice; “but I question whether her headache might not
be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as
standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well
to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always
forget to have mine filled.”

“She has got it,” said Lady Bertram; “she has had it ever since she
came back from your house the second time.”

“What!” cried Edmund; “has she been walking as well as cutting roses;
walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma’am?
No wonder her head aches.”

Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.

“I was afraid it would be too much for her,” said Lady Bertram; “but
when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then
you know they must be taken home.”

“But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?”

“No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and,
unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the
key, so she was obliged to go again.”

Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, “And could nobody be
employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma’am, it has been
a very ill-managed business.”

“I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,” cried
Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; “unless I had gone myself,
indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr.
Green at that very time about your mother’s dairymaid, by _her_ desire,
and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,
and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can
justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I
cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny’s just stepping down to
my house for me—it is not much above a quarter of a mile—I cannot think
I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day,
early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing about it?”

“I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma’am.”

“If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be
knocked up so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long
while, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to
walk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her.
But I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among
the roses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue
of that kind; and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot.
Between ourselves, Edmund,” nodding significantly at his mother, “it
was cutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that
did the mischief.”

“I am afraid it was, indeed,” said the more candid Lady Bertram, who
had overheard her; “I am very much afraid she caught the headache
there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I
could bear myself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him
from the flower-beds, was almost too much for me.”

Edmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table,
on which the supper-tray yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to
Fanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She wished to be able
to decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings created, made
it easier to swallow than to speak.

Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry
with himself. His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything
which they had done. Nothing of this would have happened had she been
properly considered; but she had been left four days together without
any choice of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for
avoiding whatever her unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed
to think that for four days together she had not had the power of
riding, and very seriously resolved, however unwilling he must be to
check a pleasure of Miss Crawford’s, that it should never happen again.

Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her
arrival at the Park. The state of her spirits had probably had its
share in her indisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and
been struggling against discontent and envy for some days past. As she
leant on the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might not be
seen, the pain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and
the sudden change which Edmund’s kindness had then occasioned, made her
hardly know how to support herself.




CHAPTER VIII


Fanny’s rides recommenced the very next day; and as it was a pleasant
fresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had lately been,
Edmund trusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, would be
soon made good. While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his
mother, who came to be civil and to shew her civility especially, in
urging the execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had been
started a fortnight before, and which, in consequence of her subsequent
absence from home, had since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces
were all well pleased with its revival, and an early day was named and
agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: the young ladies
did not forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris would willingly
have answered for his being so, they would neither authorise the
liberty nor run the risk; and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr.
Rushworth discovered that the properest thing to be done was for him to
walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and
inquire whether Wednesday would suit him or not.

Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having been out
some time, and taken a different route to the house, they had not met
him. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr.
Crawford at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was
hardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of, for
Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a
well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of
consequence, but as it related to her own and her son’s concerns, had
not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady
Bertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made
Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris’s more
numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.

“The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I
assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back, you
know. You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our two
dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that
could give her a _wish_ to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She
will have a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very
well; and as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will
answer for his being most happy to join the party. He can go on
horseback, you know.”

Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram’s staying at
home, could only be sorry. “The loss of her ladyship’s company would be
a great drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen
the young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet,
and it was a pity she should not see the place.”

“You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam,” cried Mrs.
Norris; “but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of
seeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is
quite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her.”

“Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny.”

Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must
be wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the
invitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of
visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly
declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for
her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in
accepting her share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the
Parsonage successful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to
learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to
her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other
ladies.

On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to
make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford’s being of the party were
desirable or not, or whether her brother’s barouche would not be full
without her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that
the barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on
which _one_ might go with him.

“But why is it necessary,” said Edmund, “that Crawford’s carriage, or
his _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be made of my mother’s
chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other day,
understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the
carriage of the family.”

“What!” cried Julia: “go boxed up three in a postchaise in this
weather, when we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that
will not quite do.”

“Besides,” said Maria, “I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking
us. After what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise.”

“And, my dear Edmund,” added Mrs. Norris, “taking out _two_ carriages
when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between
ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and
Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching
his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas,
when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off.”

“That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford’s,”
said Maria; “but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and
does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no
inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday.”

“There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,” said Edmund, “in
going on the barouche box.”

“Unpleasant!” cried Maria: “oh dear! I believe it would be generally
thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one’s view
of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box
herself.”

“There can be no objection, then, to Fanny’s going with you; there can
be no doubt of your having room for her.”

“Fanny!” repeated Mrs. Norris; “my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her
going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She
is not expected.”

“You can have no reason, I imagine, madam,” said he, addressing his
mother, “for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates
to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you
would not wish to keep her at home?”

“To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her.”

“You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do.”

There was a general cry out at this. “Yes,” he continued, “there is no
necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great
desire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not
often a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma’am, you would be
glad to give her the pleasure now?”

“Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection.”

Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could
remain—their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could
not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in
taking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got
over. It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so
very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth,
whose own manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention,
that she really did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection
for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her
opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own
scheme, because it _was_ her own, than from anything else. She felt
that she had arranged everything extremely well, and that any
alteration must be for the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in
reply, as he did when she would give him the hearing, that she need not
distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth’s account, because he had taken the
opportunity, as he walked with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss
Price as one who would probably be of the party, and had directly
received a very sufficient invitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was
too much vexed to submit with a very good grace, and would only say,
“Very well, very well, just as you chuse, settle it your own way, I am
sure I do not care about it.”

“It seems very odd,” said Maria, “that you should be staying at home
instead of Fanny.”

“I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you,” added Julia,
hastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a consciousness that she
ought to offer to stay at home herself.

“Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,” was
Edmund’s only reply, and the subject dropt.

Fanny’s gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greater
than her pleasure. She felt Edmund’s kindness with all, and more than
all, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment,
could be aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her
account gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton
would be nothing without him.

The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another
alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general
approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to
Lady Bertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at
dinner. Lady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so, and the young
ladies were in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an
arrangement which restored him to his share of the party; and Mrs.
Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it at her tongue’s end,
and was on the point of proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke.

Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr.
Crawford driving his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was
nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take
their places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of
honour, was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall? While
each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most
appearance of obliging the others, to secure it, the matter was settled
by Mrs. Grant’s saying, as she stepped from the carriage, “As there are
five of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry; and as
you were saying lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think
this will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson.”

Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the barouche-box in a
moment, the latter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification;
and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining
ladies, and the barking of Pug in his mistress’s arms.

Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had
never been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy
in observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She
was not often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor
did she desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her
best companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country, the
bearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the
harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she found
entertainment that could only have been heightened by having Edmund to
speak to of what she felt. That was the only point of resemblance
between her and the lady who sat by her: in everything but a value for
Edmund, Miss Crawford was very unlike her. She had none of Fanny’s
delicacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she saw Nature, inanimate
Nature, with little observation; her attention was all for men and
women, her talents for the light and lively. In looking back after
Edmund, however, when there was any stretch of road behind them, or
when he gained on them in ascending a considerable hill, they were
united, and a “there he is” broke at the same moment from them both,
more than once.

For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort:
her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side
by side, full of conversation and merriment; and to see only his
expressive profile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the
laugh of the other, was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own
sense of propriety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back,
it was with a countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them,
it was in the highest spirits: “her view of the country was charming,
she wished they could all see it,” etc.; but her only offer of exchange
was addressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long
hill, and was not more inviting than this: “Here is a fine burst of
country. I wish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it,
let me press you ever so much;” and Miss Crawford could hardly answer
before they were moving again at a good pace.

When they came within the influence of Sotherton associations, it was
better for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have two strings to her
bow. She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford feelings, and in the
vicinity of Sotherton the former had considerable effect. Mr.
Rushworth’s consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that
“those woods belonged to Sotherton,” she could not carelessly observe
that “she believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth’s property on each
side of the road,” without elation of heart; and it was a pleasure to
increase with their approach to the capital freehold mansion, and
ancient manorial residence of the family, with all its rights of
court-leet and court-baron.

“Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficulties
are over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth
has made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village.
Those cottages are really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned
remarkably handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great
house as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must
be terrible. There is the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and I
understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people. Those are
almshouses, built by some of the family. To the right is the steward’s
house; he is a very respectable man. Now we are coming to the
lodge-gates; but we have nearly a mile through the park still. It is
not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some fine timber, but the
situation of the house is dreadful. We go down hill to it for half a
mile, and it is a pity, for it would not be an ill-looking place if it
had a better approach.”

Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed Miss
Bertram’s feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote her
enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility;
and even Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be heard
with complacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her
reach; and after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and
observing that “it was a sort of building which she could not look at
but with respect,” she added, “Now, where is the avenue? The house
fronts the east, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back
of it. Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front.”

“Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little distance, and
ascends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see
something of it here—something of the more distant trees. It is oak
entirely.”

Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had
known nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion; and her
spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish,
when they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal
entrance.




CHAPTER IX


Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the whole
party were welcomed by him with due attention. In the drawing-room they
were met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all
the distinction with each that she could wish. After the business of
arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the doors were
thrown open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into
the appointed dining-parlour, where a collation was prepared with
abundance and elegance. Much was said, and much was ate, and all went
well. The particular object of the day was then considered. How would
Mr. Crawford like, in what manner would he chuse, to take a survey of
the grounds? Mr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle. Mr. Crawford
suggested the greater desirableness of some carriage which might convey
more than two. “To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other
eyes and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the loss of
present pleasure.”

Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also; but this
was scarcely received as an amendment: the young ladies neither smiled
nor spoke. Her next proposition, of shewing the house to such of them
as had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was
pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing
something.

The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth’s guidance
were shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large, and
amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining floors,
solid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each
handsome in its way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few
good, but the larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to
anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all
that the housekeeper could teach, and was now almost equally well
qualified to shew the house. On the present occasion she addressed
herself chiefly to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison
in the willingness of their attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen
scores of great houses, and cared for none of them, had only the
appearance of civilly listening, while Fanny, to whom everything was
almost as interesting as it was new, attended with unaffected
earnestness to all that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in
former times, its rise and grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts,
delighted to connect anything with history already known, or warm her
imagination with scenes of the past.

The situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect
from any of the rooms; and while Fanny and some of the others were
attending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking
his head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across a
lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron
palisades and gates.

Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any
other use than to contribute to the window-tax, and find employment for
housemaids, “Now,” said Mrs. Rushworth, “we are coming to the chapel,
which properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon; but as
we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, if you will
excuse me.”

They entered. Fanny’s imagination had prepared her for something
grander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of
devotion: with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion
of mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge
of the family gallery above. “I am disappointed,” said she, in a low
voice, to Edmund. “This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing
awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no
arches, no inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be ‘blown
by the night wind of heaven.’ No signs that a ‘Scottish monarch sleeps
below.’”

“You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how
confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and
monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have
been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. _There_ you must look for
the banners and the achievements.”

“It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed.”

Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. “This chapel was fitted up as you
see it, in James the Second’s time. Before that period, as I
understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to
think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were
only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome
chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening.
Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the
memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off.”

“Every generation has its improvements,” said Miss Crawford, with a
smile, to Edmund.

Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and
Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together.

“It is a pity,” cried Fanny, “that the custom should have been
discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is
something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great
house, with one’s ideas of what such a household should be! A whole
family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!”

“Very fine indeed,” said Miss Crawford, laughing. “It must do the heads
of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and
footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here
twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying
away.”

“_That_ is hardly Fanny’s idea of a family assembling,” said Edmund.
“If the master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be
more harm than good in the custom.”

“At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such
subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way—to chuse their own time
and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality,
the restraint, the length of time—altogether it is a formidable thing,
and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and
gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come
when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke
with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was
missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine
with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of
Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs.
Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets—starched up into seeming piety, but with
heads full of something very different—especially if the poor chaplain
were not worth looking at—and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very
inferior even to what they are now.”

For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at
Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little
recollection before he could say, “Your lively mind can hardly be
serious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch,
and human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_
_times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if
you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown
into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_
devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered,
which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected
in a closet?”

“Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their
favour. There would be less to distract the attention from without, and
it would not be tried so long.”

“The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_
circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I
believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse
better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service,
however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One
wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to
forget what chapel prayers are.”

While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the
chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford’s attention to her sister, by saying,
“Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as
if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely
the air of it?”

Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria,
said, in a voice which she only could hear, “I do not like to see Miss
Bertram so near the altar.”

Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering
herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not
much louder, “If he would give her away?”

“I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,” was his reply, with a look
of meaning.

Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.

“Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place
directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether,
and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant.” And she
talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the
comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to
the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with
proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her
whenever it took place.

“If Edmund were but in orders!” cried Julia, and running to where he
stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: “My dear Edmund, if you were but in
orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that
you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready.”

Miss Crawford’s countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a
disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she
was receiving. Fanny pitied her. “How distressed she will be at what
she said just now,” passed across her mind.

“Ordained!” said Miss Crawford; “what, are you to be a clergyman?”

“Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father’s return—probably at
Christmas.”

Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion,
replied only, “If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the
cloth with more respect,” and turned the subject.

The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which
reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss
Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to
feel that they had been there long enough.

The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs.
Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the
principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her
son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. “For
if,” said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a
clearer head does not always avoid, “we are _too_ long going over the
house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It
is past two, and we are to dine at five.”

Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds,
with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and
Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and
horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an
outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led
immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds,
as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.

“Suppose we turn down here for the present,” said Mrs. Rushworth,
civilly taking the hint and following them. “Here are the greatest
number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants.”

“Query,” said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, “whether we may not find
something to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great
promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?”

“James,” said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, “I believe the wilderness will
be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the
wilderness yet.”

No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to
move in any plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by
the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy
independence. Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the
capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side
by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a
bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed
by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the
trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining. It was a good spot for
fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr.
Rushworth; and when, after a little time, the others began to form into
parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by
Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and
who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties,
left them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs.
Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star
no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth,
and restrain her impatient feet to that lady’s slow pace, while her
aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed
the pheasants, was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the
only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was
now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of
the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The politeness which she
had been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible for her to
escape; while the want of that higher species of self-command, that
just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own heart, that
principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her
education, made her miserable under it.

“This is insufferably hot,” said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one
turn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the
middle which opened to the wilderness. “Shall any of us object to being
comfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.
What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it is;
for in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go
where they like.”

The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in
turning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day
behind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness,
which was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of
larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much
regularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with
the bowling-green and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it,
and for some time could only walk and admire. At length, after a short
pause, Miss Crawford began with, “So you are to be a clergyman, Mr.
Bertram. This is rather a surprise to me.”

“Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some
profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a
soldier, nor a sailor.”

“Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know
there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the
second son.”

“A very praiseworthy practice,” said Edmund, “but not quite universal.
I am one of the exceptions, and _being_ one, must do something for
myself.”

“But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_ was always the lot
of the youngest, where there were many to chuse before him.”

“Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?”

“_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_ of conversation,
which means _not_ _very_ _often_, I do think it. For what is to be done
in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the
other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A
clergyman is nothing.”

“The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as
the _never_. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must
not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that
situation nothing which has the charge of all that is of the first
importance to mankind, individually or collectively considered,
temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of religion and
morals, and consequently of the manners which result from their
influence. No one here can call the _office_ nothing. If the man who
holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just
importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what he ought not
to appear.”

“_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been
used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see
much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be
acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons
a week, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to
have the sense to prefer Blair’s to his own, do all that you speak of?
govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for
the rest of the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit.”

“_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of the nation at large.”

“The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest.”

“Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the
kingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is
not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good;
and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be
most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in
fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish
and his neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size
capable of knowing his private character, and observing his general
conduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost
there in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the
largest part only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing
public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I
mean to call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of
refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The
_manners_ I speak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the
result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines
which it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe,
be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought
to be, so are the rest of the nation.”

“Certainly,” said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.

“There,” cried Miss Crawford, “you have quite convinced Miss Price
already.”

“I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.”

“I do not think you ever will,” said she, with an arch smile; “I am
just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to
take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change
your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law.”

“Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this
wilderness.”

“Now you are going to say something about law being the worst
wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have
forestalled you.”

“You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a
_bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very
matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a
repartee for half an hour together without striking it out.”

A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first
interruption by saying, “I wonder that I should be tired with only
walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it
is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little
while.”

“My dear Fanny,” cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his,
“how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps,”
turning to Miss Crawford, “my other companion may do me the honour of
taking an arm.”

“Thank you, but I am not at all tired.” She took it, however, as she
spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a
connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny.
“You scarcely touch me,” said he. “You do not make me of any use. What
a difference in the weight of a woman’s arm from that of a man! At
Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the
length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison.”

“I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have
walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?”

“Not half a mile,” was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in
love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.

“Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken
such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile
long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since
we left the first great path.”

“But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw
directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it
closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in
length.”

“Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long
wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into
it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must
speak within compass.”

“We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,” said Edmund, taking
out his watch. “Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?”

“Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or
too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.”

A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk
they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered,
and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench,
on which they all sat down.

“I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny,” said Edmund, observing her;
“why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day’s amusement for
you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so
soon, Miss Crawford, except riding.”

“How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all
last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen
again.”

“_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my
own neglect. Fanny’s interest seems in safer hands with you than with
me.”

“That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there
is nothing in the course of one’s duties so fatiguing as what we have
been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room
to another, straining one’s eyes and one’s attention, hearing what one
does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is
generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price
has found it so, though she did not know it.”

“I shall soon be rested,” said Fanny; “to sit in the shade on a fine
day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.”

After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. “I must move,”
said she; “resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I
am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view,
without being able to see it so well.”

Edmund left the seat likewise. “Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up
the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile
long, or half half a mile.”

“It is an immense distance,” said she; “I see _that_ with a glance.”

He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she
would not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree
of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they
talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should
endeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little
more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were
then in—for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the
side of the ha-ha—and perhaps turn a little way in some other
direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few
minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this
was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an
earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench
to think with pleasure of her cousin’s care, but with great regret that
she was not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner,
and listened till all sound of them had ceased.




CHAPTER X


A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still
thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption
from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to
listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices
again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet
approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those
she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued
from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her.

“Miss Price all alone” and “My dear Fanny, how comes this?” were the
first salutations. She told her story. “Poor dear Fanny,” cried her
cousin, “how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid
with us.”

Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the
conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the
possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on;
but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally
speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her,
and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to
hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own
beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith’s place.

After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron
gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their
views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very
thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way
of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford’s opinion; and he
directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly
the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that
knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth
wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether
he should not bring the key; he was determined he would never come
without the key again; but still this did not remove the present evil.
They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram’s inclination for so
doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth’s declaring
outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly.

“It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from
the house already,” said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.

“Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you
find the place altogether worse than you expected?”

“No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in
its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the
truth,” speaking rather lower, “I do not think that _I_ shall ever see
Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will
hardly improve it to me.”

After a moment’s embarrassment the lady replied, “You are too much a
man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people
think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will.”

“I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be
good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent,
nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be
the case with men of the world.”

This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. “You
seemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to
see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole
way.”

“Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection
at what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of
an old Irish groom of my uncle’s. Your sister loves to laugh.”

“You think her more light-hearted than I am?”

“More easily amused,” he replied; “consequently, you know,” smiling,
“better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish
anecdotes during a ten miles’ drive.”

“Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to
think of now.”

“You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high
spirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too
fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before
you.”

“Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes,
certainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But
unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint
and hardship. ‘I cannot get out,’ as the starling said.” As she spoke,
and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her.
“Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching this key!”

“And for the world you would not get out without the key and without
Mr. Rushworth’s authority and protection, or I think you might with
little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my
assistance; I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more
at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited.”

“Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will.
Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out
of sight.”

“Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will
find us near that knoll: the grove of oak on the knoll.”

Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to
prevent it. “You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,” she cried; “you
will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your
gown; you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better
not go.”

Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken,
and, smiling with all the good-humour of success, she said, “Thank you,
my dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye.”

Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant
feelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard,
astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a
circuitous, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable direction to
the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes longer
she remained without sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to
have the little wood all to herself. She could almost have thought that
Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was impossible for
Edmund to forget her so entirely.

She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:
somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She
expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath,
and with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, “Heyday!
Where are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you.”

Fanny explained.

“A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere,” looking
eagerly into the park. “But they cannot be very far off, and I think I
am equal to as much as Maria, even without help.”

“But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do
wait for Mr. Rushworth.”

“Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why,
child, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a
penance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so
composed and so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had
been in my place, but you always contrive to keep out of these
scrapes.”

This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and
let it pass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt
that it would not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her
if she had not seen Mr. Rushworth.

“Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death,
and could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all
were.”

“It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing.”

“_That_ is Miss Maria’s concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for
_her_ sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt
was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away
from.”

And she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not
attending to Fanny’s last question of whether she had seen anything of
Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of
seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued
absence, however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been
very ill-used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had
passed. He joined her within five minutes after Julia’s exit; and
though she made the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and
displeased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said anything; his
looks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked
to the gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.

“They desired me to stay—my cousin Maria charged me to say that you
would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts.”

“I do not believe I shall go any farther,” said he sullenly; “I see
nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll they may be gone
somewhere else. I have had walking enough.”

And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.

“I am very sorry,” said she; “it is very unlucky.” And she longed to be
able to say something more to the purpose.

After an interval of silence, “I think they might as well have staid
for me,” said he.

“Miss Bertram thought you would follow her.”

“I should not have had to follow her if she had staid.”

This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After another pause,
he went on—“Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr.
Crawford as some people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him.”

“I do not think him at all handsome.”

“Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not
five foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot
eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these
Crawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them.”

A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict
him.

“If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have
been some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it.”

“Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure, and I dare
say you walked as fast as you could; but still it is some distance, you
know, from this spot to the house, quite into the house; and when
people are waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half minute
seems like five.”

He got up and walked to the gate again, and “wished he had had the key
about him at the time.” Fanny thought she discerned in his standing
there an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another
attempt, and she said, therefore, “It is a pity you should not join
them. They expected to have a better view of the house from that part
of the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing
of that sort, you know, can be settled without you.”

She found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a
companion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. “Well,” said he, “if you really
think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key for
nothing.” And letting himself out, he walked off without farther
ceremony.

Fanny’s thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so
long ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search of
them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just
turned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford
once more caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more windings
brought them before her. They were just returned into the wilderness
from the park, to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very
soon after their leaving her, and they had been across a portion of the
park into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning
to reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees.
This was their history. It was evident that they had been spending
their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their
absence. Fanny’s best consolation was in being assured that Edmund had
wished for her very much, and that he should certainly have come back
for her, had she not been tired already; but this was not quite
sufficient to do away with the pain of having been left a whole hour,
when he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of
curiosity she felt to know what they had been conversing about all that
time; and the result of the whole was to her disappointment and
depression, as they prepared by general agreement to return to the
house.

On reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and
Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, just ready for the
wilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the
house. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever
cross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces,
she had found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper,
after a great many courtesies on the subject of pheasants, had taken
her to the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given her the
receipt for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia’s leaving them they
had been met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most
satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his
grandson’s illness, convinced him that it was an ague, and promised him
a charm for it; and he, in return, had shewn her all his choicest
nursery of plants, and actually presented her with a very curious
specimen of heath.

On this _rencontre_ they all returned to the house together, there to
lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and
Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of
dinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came
in, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially
agreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the
object of the day. By their own accounts they had been all walking
after each other, and the junction which had taken place at last
seemed, to Fanny’s observation, to have been as much too late for
re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly had been for determining on
any alteration. She felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth,
that hers was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was
gloom on the face of each. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more
gay, and she thought that he was taking particular pains, during
dinner, to do away any little resentment of the other two, and restore
general good-humour.

Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles’ drive home
allowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sitting down to
table, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage
came to the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained
a few pheasants’ eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made
abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the
way. At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, “I hope
I am not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air
in so exposed a seat.” The request had not been foreseen, but was very
graciously received, and Julia’s day was likely to end almost as well
as it began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different,
and was a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the
one preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr.
Rushworth’s parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better
pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending
the box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.

“Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word,” said
Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. “Nothing but pleasure from
beginning to end! I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to your
aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day’s
amusement you have had!”

Maria was just discontented enough to say directly, “I think _you_ have
done pretty well yourself, ma’am. Your lap seems full of good things,
and here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my
elbow unmercifully.”

“My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old
gardener would make me take; but if it is in your way, I will have it
in my lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me;
take great care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just
like the excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that
good old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out
as long as I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I
knew it was just the sort that my sister would be delighted with. That
Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her
whether wine was allowed at the second table, and she has turned away
two housemaids for wearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny.
Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well.”

“What else have you been spunging?” said Maria, half-pleased that
Sotherton should be so complimented.

“Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful
pheasants’ eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me: she
would not take a denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me,
as she understood I lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures
of that sort; and so to be sure it will. I shall get the dairymaid to
set them under the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have
them moved to my own house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great
delight to me in my lonely hours to attend to them. And if I have good
luck, your mother shall have some.”

It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as
pleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris
ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within.
Their spirits were in general exhausted; and to determine whether the
day had afforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of
almost all.




CHAPTER XI


The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss
Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the
letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was
much pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to
think of their father in England again within a certain period, which
these letters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.

November was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of
it with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise. His
business was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take
his passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward
with the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November.

Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a
husband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness
would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness
should depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to
throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should
see something else. It would hardly be _early_ in November, there were
generally delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring
_something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look, or
their understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would
probably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November was
three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might
happen in thirteen weeks.

Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that
his daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have
found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the
breast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her
brother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news;
and though seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness,
and to have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it
with an attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the
particulars of the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea,
as Miss Crawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny
looking out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr.
Rushworth, and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the
pianoforte, she suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group,
and saying, “How happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of
November.”

Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say.

“Your father’s return will be a very interesting event.”

“It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but
including so many dangers.”

“It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your
sister’s marriage, and your taking orders.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be affronted,” said she, laughing, “but it does put me in mind
of some of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing great exploits
in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe
return.”

“There is no sacrifice in the case,” replied Edmund, with a serious
smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; “it is entirely her own
doing.”

“Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than
what every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being
extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand.”

“My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria’s
marrying.”

“It is fortunate that your inclination and your father’s convenience
should accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I
understand, hereabouts.”

“Which you suppose has biassed me?”

“But _that_ I am sure it has not,” cried Fanny.

“Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would
affirm myself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a
provision for me probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it
should. There was no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see
no reason why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he
will have a competence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I
should not have been influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my
father was too conscientious to have allowed it. I have no doubt that I
was biased, but I think it was blamelessly.”

“It is the same sort of thing,” said Fanny, after a short pause, “as
for the son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general
to be in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody
wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve
them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they
appear.”

“No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either
navy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its
favour: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are
always acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers
and sailors.”

“But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of
preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?” said Edmund. “To be
justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty
of any provision.”

“What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed;
absolute madness.”

“Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to
take orders with a living nor without? No; for you certainly would not
know what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from
your own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which
you rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in
their choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are
all against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting
sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his.”

“Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made, to
the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing
nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is
indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of
all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to
take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A
clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish—read the
newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate
does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.”

“There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common
as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character. I
suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure,
you are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose
opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that
your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy.
You can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men
you condemn so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told
at your uncle’s table.”

“I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion
is general, it is usually correct. Though _I_ have not seen much of the
domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any
deficiency of information.”

“Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are
condemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information,
or (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals,
perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or
bad, they were always wishing away.”

“Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the
Antwerp,” was a tender apostrophe of Fanny’s, very much to the purpose
of her own feelings if not of the conversation.

“I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle,”
said Miss Crawford, “that I can hardly suppose—and since you push me so
hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of
seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my
own brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging
to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good
scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very
respectable, _I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who
must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a
finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook
makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the
truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a
disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better
of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it.”

“I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great
defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;
and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to
such feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to
defend Dr. Grant.”

“No,” replied Fanny, “but we need not give up his profession for all
that; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have
taken a—not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy
or army, have had a great many more people under his command than he
has now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor
or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that
whatever there may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in
a greater danger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly
profession, where he would have had less time and obligation—where he
might have escaped that knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at
least, of that knowledge which it is impossible he should escape as he
is now. A man—a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of
teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twice every
Sunday, and preach such very good sermons in so good a manner as he
does, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think;
and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavours to restrain himself than
he would if he had been anything but a clergyman.”

“We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better
fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness
depends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a
good-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling
about green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night.”

“I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny,” said Edmund
affectionately, “must be beyond the reach of any sermons.”

Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time
to say, in a pleasant manner, “I fancy Miss Price has been more used to
deserve praise than to hear it”; when, being earnestly invited by the
Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument,
leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her
many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful
tread.

“There goes good-humour, I am sure,” said he presently. “There goes a
temper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily
she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment
she is asked. What a pity,” he added, after an instant’s reflection,
“that she should have been in such hands!”

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the
window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes
soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was
solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an
unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny
spoke her feelings. “Here’s harmony!” said she; “here’s repose! Here’s
what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only
can attempt to describe! Here’s what may tranquillise every care, and
lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I
feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world;
and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature
were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves
by contemplating such a scene.”

“I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they
are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree,
as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in
early life. They lose a great deal.”

“_You_ taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin.”

“I had a very apt scholar. There’s Arcturus looking very bright.”

“Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia.”

“We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?”

“Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any
star-gazing.”

“Yes; I do not know how it has happened.” The glee began. “We will stay
till this is finished, Fanny,” said he, turning his back on the window;
and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance
too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when
it ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in
requesting to hear the glee again.

Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris’s
threats of catching cold.




CHAPTER XII


Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to
call him earlier home. The approach of September brought tidings of Mr.
Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter to
Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,
agreeable, and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford
demanded; to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to
which she might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and
altogether to give her the fullest conviction, by the power of actual
comparison, of her preferring his younger brother.

It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it
was; and so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even
want to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty
required: his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but
pleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear
that he did not care about her; and his indifference was so much more
than equalled by her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of
Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time,
she did not believe she could accept him.

The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield took
Mr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him in the
beginning of September. He went for a fortnight—a fortnight of such
dullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their
guard, and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the
absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not
to return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of
shooting and sleeping, to have convinced the gentleman that he ought to
keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own
motives, and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity
was tending; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad
example, he would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters,
handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind;
and finding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of
Mansfield, he gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was
welcomed thither quite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with
further.

Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the
repeated details of his day’s sport, good or bad, his boast of his
dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their
qualifications, and his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not
find their way to female feelings without some talent on one side or
some attachment on the other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and
Julia, unengaged and unemployed, felt all the right of missing him much
more. Each sister believed herself the favourite. Julia might be
justified in so doing by the hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit
what she wished, and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself.
Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence; his
manners being to each so animated and agreeable as to lose no ground
with either, and just stopping short of the consistence, the
steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which might excite general
notice.

Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but
since the day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with
either sister without observation, and seldom without wonder or
censure; and had her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her
exercise of it in every other respect, had she been sure that she was
seeing clearly, and judging candidly, she would probably have made some
important communications to her usual confidant. As it was, however,
she only hazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. “I am rather
surprised,” said she, “that Mr. Crawford should come back again so
soon, after being here so long before, full seven weeks; for I had
understood he was so very fond of change and moving about, that I
thought something would certainly occur, when he was once gone, to take
him elsewhere. He is used to much gayer places than Mansfield.”

“It is to his credit,” was Edmund’s answer; “and I dare say it gives
his sister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled habits.”

“What a favourite he is with my cousins!”

“Yes, his manners to women are such as must please. Mrs. Grant, I
believe, suspects him of a preference for Julia; I have never seen much
symptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no faults but what a
serious attachment would remove.”

“If Miss Bertram were not engaged,” said Fanny cautiously, “I could
sometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia.”

“Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia best, than you,
Fanny, may be aware; for I believe it often happens that a man, before
he has quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or
intimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the
woman herself. Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found
himself in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her,
after such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong.”

Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think
differently in future; but with all that submission to Edmund could do,
and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she
occasionally noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say
that Julia was Mr. Crawford’s choice, she knew not always what to
think. She was privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on
the subject, as well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs.
Rushworth, on a point of some similarity, and could not help wondering
as she listened; and glad would she have been not to be obliged to
listen, for it was while all the other young people were dancing, and
she sitting, most unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing
for the re-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a
partner then depended. It was Fanny’s first ball, though without the
preparation or splendour of many a young lady’s first ball, being the
thought only of the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a
violin player in the servants’ hall, and the possibility of raising
five couple with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of
Mr. Bertram’s just arrived on a visit. It had, however, been a very
happy one to Fanny through four dances, and she was quite grieved to be
losing even a quarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, looking
now at the dancers and now at the door, this dialogue between the two
above-mentioned ladies was forced on her—

“I think, ma’am,” said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr.
Rushworth and Maria, who were partners for the second time, “we shall
see some happy faces again now.”

“Yes, ma’am, indeed,” replied the other, with a stately simper, “there
will be some satisfaction in looking on _now_, and I think it was
rather a pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in
their situation should be excused complying with the common forms. I
wonder my son did not propose it.”

“I dare say he did, ma’am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear
Maria has such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true
delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth—that wish
of avoiding particularity! Dear ma’am, only look at her face at this
moment; how different from what it was the two last dances!”

Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with
pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her
partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster
together. How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she
had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her.

Mrs. Norris continued, “It is quite delightful, ma’am, to see young
people so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I
cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas’s delight. And what do you say,
ma’am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good
example, and such things are very catching.”

Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss.

“The couple above, ma’am. Do you see no symptoms there?”

“Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty
match. What is his property?”

“Four thousand a year.”

“Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they
have. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very
genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy.”

“It is not a settled thing, ma’am, yet. We only speak of it among
friends. But I have very little doubt it _will_ be. He is growing
extremely particular in his attentions.”

Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all
suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though
feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it
must happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking
her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the
present state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from whom
he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the
modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable
in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper
from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, “If you
want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you.” With more than equal
civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. “I am glad
of it,” said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the
newspaper again, “for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good
people can keep it up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find
any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at
them you may see they are so many couple of lovers—all but Yates and
Mrs. Grant—and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover
as much as any one of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the
doctor,” making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter,
who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a
change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of
everything, could hardly help laughing at. “A strange business this in
America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know
what I am to think of public matters.”

“My dear Tom,” cried his aunt soon afterwards, “as you are not dancing,
I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall
you?” Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal,
added in a whisper, “We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you
know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare
time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr.
Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you
may bet half-guineas with _him_.”

“I should be most happy,” replied he aloud, and jumping up with
alacrity, “it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this
moment going to dance. Come, Fanny,” taking her hand, “do not be
dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over.”

Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to
feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly
did, between the selfishness of another person and his own.

“A pretty modest request upon my word,” he indignantly exclaimed as
they walked away. “To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two
hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that
poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my
good aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too!
without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of
refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my
spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of
being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as
to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not
luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it.
It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her
head, nothing can stop her.”




CHAPTER XIII


The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend
him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of
a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably
have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr.
Bertram’s acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had
spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if
friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr.
Yates’s being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could,
and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had
been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large
party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had
left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with
his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the
play in which he had borne a part was within two days of
representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions
of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To
be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in
praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right
Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have
immortalised the whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so
near, to lose it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates
could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its
arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing
subject, and to boast of the past his only consolation.

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for
acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the
interest of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the
epilogue it was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to
have been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their
skill. The play had been Lovers’ Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been
Count Cassel. “A trifling part,” said he, “and not at all to my taste,
and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was
determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had
appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached
Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it
was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for _him_ that he
should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the
Baron—a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten
minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was
resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal
to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself;
whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised
to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did
not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was
thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have
gone off wonderfully.”

“It was a hard case, upon my word”; and, “I do think you were very much
to be pitied,” were the kind responses of listening sympathy.

“It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager
could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help
wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three
days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother,
and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been
no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I
suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of
it.”

“An afterpiece instead of a comedy,” said Mr. Bertram. “Lovers’ Vows
were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother
by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps,
between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in
the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends,
Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you
to be our manager.”

This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment;
for the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly
than in him who was now master of the house; and who, having so much
leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such
a degree of lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to
the novelty of acting. The thought returned again and again. “Oh for
the Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with.” Each sister
could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of
his gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at
the idea. “I really believe,” said he, “I could be fool enough at this
moment to undertake any character that ever was written, from Shylock
or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat
and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be anything or everything; as if I
could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy
in the English language. Let us be doing something. Be it only half a
play, an act, a scene; what should prevent us? Not these countenances,
I am sure,” looking towards the Miss Bertrams; “and for a theatre, what
signifies a theatre? We shall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in
this house might suffice.”

“We must have a curtain,” said Tom Bertram; “a few yards of green baize
for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough.”

“Oh, quite enough,” cried Mr. Yates, “with only just a side wing or two
run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing
more would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement
among ourselves we should want nothing more.”

“I believe we must be satisfied with _less_,” said Maria. “There would
not be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt
Mr. Crawford’s views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_,
our object. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery.”

“Nay,” said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. “Let us do nothing
by halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted
up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from
beginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a
good tricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe,
and a song between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do
nothing.”

“Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable,” said Julia. “Nobody loves a play
better than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one.”

“True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would
hardly walk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of
those who have not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and
ladies, who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum to
struggle through.”

After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was
discussed with unabated eagerness, every one’s inclination increasing
by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and
though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy,
and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the
world could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all,
the resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to make
Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if
possible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which
passed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.

The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.
Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.
Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was
standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa
at a little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work,
thus began as he entered—“Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours
is not to be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no
longer, and I think, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it
again; but one good thing I have just ascertained: it is the very room
for a theatre, precisely the shape and length for it; and the doors at
the farther end, communicating with each other, as they may be made to
do in five minutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father’s room,
is the very thing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for
it; and my father’s room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to
join the billiard-room on purpose.”

“You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?” said Edmund, in a low
voice, as his brother approached the fire.

“Not serious! never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise
you in it?”

“I think it would be very wrong. In a _general_ light, private
theatricals are open to some objections, but as _we_ are circumstanced,
I must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious
to attempt anything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling on
my father’s account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant
danger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose
situation is a very delicate one, considering everything, extremely
delicate.”

“You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three
times a week till my father’s return, and invite all the country. But
it is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little
amusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our
powers in something new. We want no audience, no publicity. We may be
trusted, I think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;
and I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing
in the elegant written language of some respectable author than in
chattering in words of our own. I have no fears and no scruples. And as
to my father’s being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I
consider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must
be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of
amusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few
weeks, I shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will
he. It is a _very_ anxious period for her.”

As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk
back in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth, ease,
and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was
getting through the few difficulties of her work for her.

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

“By Jove! this won’t do,” cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with
a hearty laugh. “To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety—I was unlucky
there.”

“What is the matter?” asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one
half-roused; “I was not asleep.”

“Oh dear, no, ma’am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund,” he continued,
returning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as Lady
Bertram began to nod again, “but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we
shall be doing no harm.”

“I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally
disapprove it.”

“And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise
of talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for
anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always
a decided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a
time have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to _be’d_
and not _to_ _be’d_, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am
sure, _my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one
Christmas holidays.”

“It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself.
My father wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never
wish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is
strict.”

“I know all that,” said Tom, displeased. “I know my father as well as
you do; and I’ll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress
him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I’ll take care of the rest
of the family.”

“If you are resolved on acting,” replied the persevering Edmund, “I
must hope it will be in a very small and quiet way; and I think a
theatre ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my
father’s house in his absence which could not be justified.”

“For everything of that nature I will be answerable,” said Tom, in a
decided tone. “His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an
interest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such
alterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or
unlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a
week without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose
he would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the
breakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sister’s
pianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute
nonsense!”

“The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an
expense.”

“Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps
it might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must
have undoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a green curtain
and a little carpenter’s work, and that’s all; and as the carpenter’s
work may be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be
too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed,
everything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don’t imagine that nobody in
this house can see or judge but yourself. Don’t act yourself, if you do
not like it, but don’t expect to govern everybody else.”

“No, as to acting myself,” said Edmund, “_that_ I absolutely protest
against.”

Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit
down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.

Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling
throughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest
some comfort, “Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit
them. Your brother’s taste and your sisters’ seem very different.”

“I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they will
find something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade _them_,
and that is all I can do.”

“I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side.”

“I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my
sisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself,
I shall let things take their course, without attempting it through
her. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better
do anything than be altogether by the ears.”

His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next
morning, were quite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to
his representation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as
Tom. Their mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in
the least afraid of their father’s disapprobation. There could be no
harm in what had been done in so many respectable families, and by so
many women of the first consideration; and it must be scrupulousness
run mad that could see anything to censure in a plan like theirs,
comprehending only brothers and sisters and intimate friends, and which
would never be heard of beyond themselves. Julia _did_ seem inclined to
admit that Maria’s situation might require particular caution and
delicacy—but that could not extend to _her_—she was at liberty; and
Maria evidently considered her engagement as only raising her so much
more above restraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to
consult either father or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was
still urging the subject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh
from the Parsonage, calling out, “No want of hands in our theatre, Miss
Bertram. No want of understrappers: my sister desires her love, and
hopes to be admitted into the company, and will be happy to take the
part of any old duenna or tame confidante, that you may not like to do
yourselves.”

Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, “What say you now? Can we be
wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?” And Edmund, silenced, was
obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry
fascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to
dwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than
on anything else.

The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and as to Mrs. Norris, he was
mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She started no
difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest
nephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the whole
arrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at
all to herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle,
and importance, and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself
obliged to leave her own house, where she had been living a month at
her own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, that every hour might be
spent in their service, she was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with
the project.




CHAPTER XIV


Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business
of finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and
the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had
suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having
made the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident,
was already at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations
were also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from
Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good
management of full three-quarters of a yard), and was actually forming
into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and
as two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to
hope that none might ever be found.

There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people
to be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a
need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that
there did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by
youth and zeal could hold out.

On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr.
Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was
evident that Mary Crawford’s wishes, though politely kept back,
inclined the same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to
make allies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable
difference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the
whole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All
the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor
Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could
satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,
Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively
dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that
did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other
it was a continual repetition of, “Oh no, _that_ will never do! Let us
have no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman’s
part in the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be
impossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a
part. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do,
perhaps, but for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have
always thought it the most insipid play in the English language. _I_ do
not wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I
think we could not chuse worse.”

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness
which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering
how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that
something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but
everything of higher consequence was against it.

“This will never do,” said Tom Bertram at last. “We are wasting time
most abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that
something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many
must not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little.
If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything
of it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you
chuse to give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition
for nothing more.”

For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting
only whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and
very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others
that there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the Dramatis
Personæ.

The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same
speaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on
the table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed—“Lovers’ Vows! And
why should not Lovers’ Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws?
How came it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would
do exactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for
Yates and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody
else wants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not
dislike, and, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do
my best. And as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is
only Count Cassel and Anhalt.”

The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of
indecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had
been proposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was
particularly pleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron
at Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw’s, and been
forced to re-rant it all in his own room. The storm through Baron
Wildenheim was the height of his theatrical ambition; and with the
advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart already, he did now, with
the greatest alacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him
justice, however, he did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering
that there was some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed
an equal willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either.
Whichever Mr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a
short parley of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the
interest of an Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by
observing to Mr. Yates that this was a point in which height and figure
ought to be considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit
him peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right,
and the two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the
proper Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr.
Rushworth, who was always answered for by Maria as willing to do
anything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to
be scrupulous on Miss Crawford’s account.

“This is not behaving well by the absent,” said she. “Here are not
women enough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is
nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford.”

Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure
his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that
she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But
this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of
Amelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she
would accept it. “It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her,” said
he, “as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no
sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic.”

A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the
best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the
rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with
seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the
business.

“I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram,” said he, “not to engage in the
part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must
not, indeed you must not” (turning to her). “I could not stand your
countenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had
together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his
knapsack would be obliged to run away.”

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the
matter to Julia’s feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed
the injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted,
Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to
suppress shewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could
command herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against
her too, by saying, “Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the
best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not
trust her in it. There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the
look of it. Her features are not tragic features, and she walks too
quick, and speaks too quick, and would not keep her countenance. She
had better do the old countrywoman: the Cottager’s wife; you had,
indeed, Julia. Cottager’s wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The
old lady relieves the high-flown benevolence of her husband with a good
deal of spirit. You shall be Cottager’s wife.”

“Cottager’s wife!” cried Mr. Yates. “What are you talking of? The most
trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a
tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult to
propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We all
agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more
justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if
you cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better.”

“Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really
acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to
Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager’s
wife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being
satisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have
more credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately
bent against everything humorous, let her take Cottager’s speeches
instead of Cottager’s wife’s, and so change the parts all through; _he_
is solemn and pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference
in the play, and as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife’s
speeches, _I_ would undertake him with all my heart.”

“With all your partiality for Cottager’s wife,” said Henry Crawford,
“it will be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and
we must not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must not
_allow_ her to accept the part. She must not be left to her own
complaisance. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a
character more difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I
consider Amelia is the most difficult character in the whole piece. It
requires great powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and
simplicity without extravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the
part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress
by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not.
It requires a gentlewoman—a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I
hope?” turning to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened
her a little; but while she hesitated what to say, her brother again
interposed with Miss Crawford’s better claim.

“No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her.
She would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and
robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It
is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part,
and I am persuaded will do it admirably.”

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.
“You must oblige us,” said he, “indeed you must. When you have studied
the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your
choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You will
be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will not
refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your
basket.”

The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only
trying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous
affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He
was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously
at her sister; Maria’s countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed
and alarmed—but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia
well knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her
expense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she
said to him, “You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance
when I come in with a basket of provisions—though one might have
supposed—but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!”
She stopped—Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not
know what to say. Tom Bertram began again—

“Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia.”

“Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character,” cried Julia, with
angry quickness: “I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do
nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the
most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert,
unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and
this is comedy in its worst form.” And so saying, she walked hastily
out of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but
exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet
auditor of the whole, and who could not think of her as under the
agitations of _jealousy_ without great pity.

A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon
returned to business and Lovers’ Vows, and was eagerly looking over the
play, with Mr. Yates’s help, to ascertain what scenery would be
necessary—while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an
under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, “I am sure I
would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall
probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse,” was
doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.

When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed
by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in
the room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram’s
resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia
to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.

The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which
had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play
of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she
ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals
of astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that
it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and
Amelia appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for
home representation—the situation of one, and the language of the
other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could
hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging
in; and longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the
remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.




CHAPTER XV


Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss
Bertram’s return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another
character was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel and
Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss
Bertram to direct him; but upon being made to understand the different
style of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he
had once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid
fellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the
decision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could
not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act
together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the
leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly
took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being
shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much
dressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his
finery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much
engaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others,
or draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which
Maria had been half prepared for.

Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning,
knew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room
before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and
Mr. Yates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to
tell him the agreeable news.

“We have got a play,” said he. “It is to be Lovers’ Vows; and I am to
be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink
satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way
of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it.”

Fanny’s eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard
this speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.

“Lovers’ Vows!” in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply
to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if
hardly doubting a contradiction.

“Yes,” cried Mr. Yates. “After all our debatings and difficulties, we
find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so
unexceptionable, as Lovers’ Vows. The wonder is that it should not have
been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have
all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to
have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part.”

“But what do you do for women?” said Edmund gravely, and looking at
Maria.

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, “I take the part
which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and” (with a bolder eye) “Miss
Crawford is to be Amelia.”

“I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled
up, with _us_,” replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his
mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great
vexation.

Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, “I come in three times, and have
two-and-forty speeches. That’s something, is not it? But I do not much
like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue
dress and a pink satin cloak.”

Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called
out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being
accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr.
Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, “I
cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without
reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria,
tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private
representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but
suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the
first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can
approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father’s_
judgment, I am convinced.”

“We see things very differently,” cried Maria. “I am perfectly
acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions,
and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing
objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who
thinks it very fit for private representation.”

“I am sorry for it,” was his answer; “but in this matter it is _you_
who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered,
it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy
is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of
the party.”

This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved
better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,
“I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I
still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake
to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be
the greatest indecorum, I think.”

“Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your
conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel
yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and
confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness,
and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand
your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as
it ought.”

“Do not act anything improper, my dear,” said Lady Bertram. “Sir Thomas
would not like it.—Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.—To be
sure, Julia is dressed by this time.”

“I am convinced, madam,” said Edmund, preventing Fanny, “that Sir
Thomas would not like it.”

“There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?”

“If I were to decline the part,” said Maria, with renewed zeal, “Julia
would certainly take it.”

“What!” cried Edmund, “if she knew your reasons!”

“Oh! she might think the difference between us—the difference in our
situations—that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel
necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I
cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so
disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we
shall never act anything.”

“I was just going to say the very same thing,” said Mrs. Norris. “If
every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the
preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure
_that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as
Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with
most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise,
Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only
wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there
was the loss of half a day’s work about those side-doors. The curtain
will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I
think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is
no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I
hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should
always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot
to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been
looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who
should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants’ hall-door with
two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be
sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then
father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no
how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants’
dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I
hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have
always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to
the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know,
who ought to be ashamed of himself), ‘_I’ll_ take the boards to your
father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.’ The boy looked
very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I
might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming
marauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness—so good
as your father is to the family, employing the man all the year round!”

Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and
Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his
only satisfaction.

Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick
Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked
of, for Edmund’s disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he
would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford’s animating
support, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying
to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable
on any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their
company; and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress
in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.

But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two:
there was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening
giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being
reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a
separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting
deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the
entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it
was, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful
joy.

“Well, how do you go on?” and “What have you settled?” and “Oh! we can
do nothing without you,” followed the first salutations; and Henry
Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his
sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was
complimenting _her_. “I must really congratulate your ladyship,” said
she, “on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with
exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and
difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be
infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you
joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the
same predicament,” glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to
Edmund.

She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing.
His being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat
with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to
the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to interest
herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden
recollection, she exclaimed, “My good friends, you are most composedly
at work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let
me know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman
among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?”

For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the
same melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt. “Mr.
Rushworth was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken
Anhalt.”

“I had my choice of the parts,” said Mr. Rushworth; “but I thought I
should like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am
to have.”

“You chose very wisely, I am sure,” replied Miss Crawford, with a
brightened look; “Anhalt is a heavy part.”

“_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches,” returned Mr. Rushworth,
“which is no trifle.”

“I am not at all surprised,” said Miss Crawford, after a short pause,
“at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward
young lady may well frighten the men.”

“I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible,”
cried Tom; “but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I
will not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done—I
will look it over again.”

“Your _brother_ should take the part,” said Mr. Yates, in a low voice.
“Do not you think he would?”

“_I_ shall not ask him,” replied Tom, in a cold, determined manner.

Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined
the party at the fire.

“They do not want me at all,” said she, seating herself. “I only puzzle
them, and oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as
you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and,
therefore, I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it
practicable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?”

“My advice,” said he calmly, “is that you change the play.”

“_I_ should have no objection,” she replied; “for though I should not
particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if
everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as
they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_” (looking
round), “it certainly will not be taken.”

Edmund said no more.

“If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,”
observed the lady archly, after a short pause; “for he is a clergyman,
you know.”

“_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me,” he replied, “for I
should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It must
be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn
lecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one
of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage.”

Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and
mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and
gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.

“Fanny,” cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference
was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, “we want your
services.”

Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of
employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that
Edmund could do.

“Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your
_present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be
Cottager’s wife.”

“Me!” cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look.
“Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to
give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act.”

“Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten
you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen
speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a
word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must
have you to look at.”

“If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches,” cried Mr. Rushworth,
“what would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to
learn.”

“It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart,” said Fanny, shocked
to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to
feel that almost every eye was upon her; “but I really cannot act.”

“Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we
will teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall
be Cottager, I’ll put you in and push you about, and you will do it
very well, I’ll answer for it.”

“No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea.
It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I
should only disappoint you.”

“Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You’ll do it very well. Every
allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must
get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make
you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your
eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman.”

“You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,” cried Fanny, growing
more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully
at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate
his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her
entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said
before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed
by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which
differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and
which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could
breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing
her in a whisper at once angry and audible—“What a piece of work here
is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a
difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort—so kind as
they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no
more of the matter, I entreat.”

“Do not urge her, madam,” said Edmund. “It is not fair to urge her in
this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for
herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely
trusted. Do not urge her any more.”

“I am not going to urge her,” replied Mrs. Norris sharply; “but I shall
think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what
her aunt and cousins wish her—very ungrateful, indeed, considering who
and what she is.”

Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment
with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears
were beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some
keenness, “I do not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me,”
and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to
Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself,
“Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is
cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them”; and with pointed
attention continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits,
in spite of being out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she
prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the
really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were
rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund’s
favour.

Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her
for her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work, and
wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and
supposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course
she would come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded
to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said
that she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine
young man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to
sea again—she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable
flattery, or help listening, and answering with more animation than she
had intended.

The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford’s
attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram’s telling her,
with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to
undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been
most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not
do; he must give it up. “But there will not be the smallest difficulty
in filling it,” he added. “We have but to speak the word; we may pick
and chuse. I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within
six miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and
there are one or two that would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid
to trust either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very
clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will
see anywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride
over to Stoke, and settle with one of them.”

While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in
full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as
this: so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said
nothing. After a moment’s thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, “As
far as I am concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all
think eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr.
Charles Maddox dined at my sister’s one day, did not he, Henry? A
quiet-looking young man. I remember him. Let _him_ be applied to, if
you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect
stranger.”

Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going
to him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened
her lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance
first at Maria and then at Edmund, that “the Mansfield theatricals
would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly,” Edmund still held
his peace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.

“I am not very sanguine as to our play,” said Miss Crawford, in an
undervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; “and I can tell Mr.
Maddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches, and a great many of
_my_ _own_, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable,
and by no means what I expected.”




CHAPTER XVI


It was not in Miss Crawford’s power to talk Fanny into any real
forgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, she went
to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an
attack from her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her
spirits sinking under her aunt’s unkind reflection and reproach. To be
called into notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the
prelude to something so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do
what was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of
obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the
dependence of her situation, had been too distressing at the time to
make the remembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with
the superadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation
of the subject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and
if she were applied to again among themselves with all the
authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund
perhaps away, what should she do? She fell asleep before she could
answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the
next morning. The little white attic, which had continued her
sleeping-room ever since her first entering the family, proving
incompetent to suggest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was
dressed, to another apartment more spacious and more meet for walking
about in and thinking, and of which she had now for some time been
almost equally mistress. It had been their school-room; so called till
the Miss Bertrams would not allow it to be called so any longer, and
inhabited as such to a later period. There Miss Lee had lived, and
there they had read and written, and talked and laughed, till within
the last three years, when she had quitted them. The room had then
become useless, and for some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny,
when she visited her plants, or wanted one of the books, which she was
still glad to keep there, from the deficiency of space and
accommodation in her little chamber above: but gradually, as her value
for the comforts of it increased, she had added to her possessions, and
spent more of her time there; and having nothing to oppose her, had so
naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it was now
generally admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had been called
ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered Fanny’s,
almost as decidedly as the white attic: the smallness of the one making
the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss Bertrams,
with every superiority in their own apartments which their own sense of
superiority could demand, were entirely approving it; and Mrs. Norris,
having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny’s
account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody
else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the
indulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.

The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable
in many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind
as Fanny’s; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to be
driven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in
her hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything
unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or
some train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books—of which she had
been a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling—her
writing-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within
her reach; or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would
do, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an
interesting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend, or
bore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much
of suffering to her; though her motives had often been misunderstood,
her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she
had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost
every recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt
Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what
was yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and
her friend: he had supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had
told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which
made her tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together,
so harmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its charm.
The room was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its
furniture for the handsomest in the house, though what had been
originally plain had suffered all the ill-usage of children; and its
greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia’s
work, too ill done for the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in
a rage for transparencies, for the three lower panes of one window,
where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a
moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of family profiles, thought
unworthy of being anywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their
side, and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four
years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the
bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast.

To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on
an agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund’s profile
she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums
she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more
than fears of her own perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel
undecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_; and as she walked round the
room her doubts were increasing. Was she _right_ in refusing what was
so warmly asked, so strongly wished for—what might be so essential to a
scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest
complaisance had set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature, selfishness,
and a fear of exposing herself? And would Edmund’s judgment, would his
persuasion of Sir Thomas’s disapprobation of the whole, be enough to
justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest? It would
be so horrible to her to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth
and purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around her, the
claims of her cousins to being obliged were strengthened by the sight
of present upon present that she had received from them. The table
between the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which
had been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew
bewildered as to the amount of the debt which all these kind
remembrances produced. A tap at the door roused her in the midst of
this attempt to find her way to her duty, and her gentle “Come in” was
answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont
to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.

“Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?” said he.

“Yes, certainly.”

“I want to consult. I want your opinion.”

“My opinion!” she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it
gratified her.

“Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting
scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a
play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask
the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the
end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first. I
know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must
spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly
objectionable, the _more_ than intimacy—the familiarity. I cannot think
of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such
magnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented. Do not you see it in
the same light?”

“Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined.”

“There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself.
I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom.”

Fanny could not answer him.

“It is not at all what I like,” he continued. “No man can like being
driven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency. After being known
to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face
of my joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in
every respect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you,
Fanny?”

“No,” said Fanny slowly, “not immediately, but—”

“But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over.
Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_,
of the unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man’s being
received in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at
all hours, and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all
restraints. To think only of the licence which every rehearsal must
tend to create. It is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford’s
place, Fanny. Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger.
She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for
herself. I heard enough of what she said to you last night to
understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she
probably engaged in the part with different expectations—perhaps
without considering the subject enough to know what was likely to be—it
would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her
feelings ought to be respected. Does it not strike you so, Fanny? You
hesitate.”

“I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in
to do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think
will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the
others!”

“They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously
I act. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave
it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the
business, of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I
shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do
nothing: I have offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I
have put them in good-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes
of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smaller
circle than they are now in the high road for. This will be a material
gain. My object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will
not this be worth gaining?”

“Yes, it will be a great point.”

“But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other
measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?”

“No, I cannot think of anything else.”

“Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without
it.”

“Oh, cousin!”

“If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet—But it is
absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the
country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act—no matter whom:
the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have
entered more into Miss Crawford’s feelings.”

“No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her,”
said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.

“She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last
night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill.”

“She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared”...

She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in
the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.

“I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,” said he, “and am sure
of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you
any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had
spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has
been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly
making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him
directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all
in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with
such unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into
China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?”—opening a volume on
the table and then taking up some others. “And here are Crabbe’s Tales,
and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book.
I admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am
gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit
comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold.”

He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He
had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most
unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting!
After all his objections—objections so just and so public! After all
that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be
feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not
deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford’s
doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable.
The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously
distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were
become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them
up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her
cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their
reach; and if at last obliged to yield—no matter—it was all misery now.




CHAPTER XVII


It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a
victory over Edmund’s discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was
most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their
darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the
jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee
of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and
say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play
in particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven
to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended
from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were
both as much the better as the happier for the descent.

They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no
exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed
to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles
Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their
inclination. “To have it quite in their own family circle was what they
had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the
destruction of all their comfort”; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea,
gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were
ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was
all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his
dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt’s last scene with the Baron
admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth
undertook to count his speeches.

“Perhaps,” said Tom, “Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.
Perhaps you may persuade _her_.”

“No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.”

“Oh! very well.” And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself
again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to
fail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this
change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered
with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole
affair as could have but one effect on him. “He was certainly right in
respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it.” And the
morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One
advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss
Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to
undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all
that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this,
when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss
Crawford to whom she was obliged—it was Miss Crawford whose kind
exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them
was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and
safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from
peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was
disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally
against Edmund’s decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and
his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and
agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an
insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could
hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous
and important; each had their object of interest, their part, their
dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were
finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in
the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and
insignificant: she had no share in anything; she might go or stay; she
might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the
solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could
almost think anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant
was of consequence: _her_ good-nature had honourable mention; her taste
and her time were considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought
for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger
of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought
better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to
respect, which could never have belonged to _her_; and that, had she
received even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a
scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.

Fanny’s heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as
she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too,
though not quite so blamelessly.

Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long
allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister
so reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the
conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she
submitted to it without any alarm for Maria’s situation, or any
endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself. She either sat in
gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue, no
curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates,
was talking with forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting
of the others.

For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had
endeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and
compliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a
few repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for
more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather
thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might
ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not
pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by
disregarded; but as it was not a matter which really involved her
happiness, as Henry must be the best judge of his own, and as he did
assure her, with a most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had
ever had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew her
former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him not to risk his
tranquillity by too much admiration there, and then gladly take her
share in anything that brought cheerfulness to the young people in
general, and that did so particularly promote the pleasure of the two
so dear to her.

“I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,” was her observation
to Mary.

“I dare say she is,” replied Mary coldly. “I imagine both sisters are.”

“Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of
Mr. Rushworth!”

“You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may do
_her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth’s property and
independence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A
man might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape
a profession and represent the county.”

“I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I
dare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to
put him in the way of doing anything yet.”

“Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home,” said
Mary, after a pause. “Do you remember Hawkins Browne’s ‘Address to
Tobacco,’ in imitation of Pope?—

Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.


I will parody them—

Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.


Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir
Thomas’s return.”

“You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see
him in his family, I assure you. I do not think we do so well without
him. He has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a
house, and keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a
cipher now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs.
Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for
Henry. I am sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she
did last night with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good
friends, I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant.”

“I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth’s chance if Henry stept in
before the articles were signed.”

“If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as
the play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know
his own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he
is Henry, for a time.”

Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and
though it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She
had loved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a
warm temper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the
disappointment of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense
of ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of
angry consolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy
terms was now become her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each
other; and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end
to the attentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment
to Maria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr.
Rushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion,
to prevent their being very good friends while their interests were the
same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or
principle enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or
compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless
of Julia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry
Crawford without trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a
public disturbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward
fellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took no
liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by
Fanny’s consciousness.

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia’s
discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to
the fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was
engrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not
immediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real
part, between Miss Crawford’s claims and his own conduct, between love
and consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy
in contriving and directing the general little matters of the company,
superintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for
which nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half a
crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for
watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.




CHAPTER XVIII


Everything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and
dresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great
impediments arose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was
not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she
had not to witness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had
been almost too much for her at first. Everybody began to have their
vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against _his_ judgment, a
scene-painter arrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase
of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their
proceedings; and his brother, instead of being really guided by him as
to the privacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every
family who came in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the
scene-painter’s slow progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He
had learned his part—all his parts, for he took every trifling one that
could be united with the Butler, and began to be impatient to be
acting; and every day thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense
of the insignificance of all his parts together, and make him more
ready to regret that some other play had not been chosen.

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only
listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of most
of them. _She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant
dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom
Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant
spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his
part, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth,
who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that
poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_
complaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her
eye was her cousin Maria’s avoidance of him, and so needlessly often
the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she
had soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_. So far from
being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring
something they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the
others. Everybody had a part either too long or too short; nobody would
attend as they ought; nobody would remember on which side they were to
come in; nobody but the complainer would observe any directions.

Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the
play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure
to _her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the
first act, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for
Maria. Maria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the
first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and
sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful.
As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor
of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom,
more talent and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a man,
but she must admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there
were not many who differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed
against his tameness and insipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr.
Rushworth turned to her with a black look, and said, “Do you think
there is anything so very fine in all this? For the life and soul of
me, I cannot admire him; and, between ourselves, to see such an
undersized, little, mean-looking man, set up for a fine actor, is very
ridiculous in my opinion.”

From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which
Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to
remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth’s ever attaining to the
knowledge of his two-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his
ever making anything _tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea
of that except his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was
not more considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they
were forward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes;
but the others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword,
and the first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter
through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great
pains to teach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and
directions in her power, trying to make an artificial memory for him,
and learning every word of his part herself, but without his being much
the forwarder.

Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had;
but with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was
as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,
as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no
demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first
anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally
useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any.

There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her
help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as
the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it—“Come,
Fanny,” she cried, “these are fine times for you, but you must not be
always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at
your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself
till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth’s cloak without
sending for any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help
in putting it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a
trice. It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part
to do. _You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than
_you_, we should not get on very fast.”

Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but
her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf—

“One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is all
new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play
ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at
leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play
about, Fanny? you have never told me.”

“Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who
can talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers’ Vows.”

“I believe,” said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, “there will be three acts
rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of
seeing all the actors at once.”

“You had better stay till the curtain is hung,” interposed Mrs. Norris;
“the curtain will be hung in a day or two—there is very little sense in
a play without a curtain—and I am much mistaken if you do not find it
draw up into very handsome festoons.”

Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her
aunt’s composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the
three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be
acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene
between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was
longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject
of it was love—a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman,
and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.

She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering
emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a
circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet
rehearsed it, even in private.

The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny’s
consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very
diligently under her aunt’s directions, but her diligence and her
silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made
her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no
concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal
of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at
once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr.
Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies
walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat,
and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a
quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the
entrance of Miss Crawford.

“Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your
pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help.”

Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the
room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty
grate with concern.

“Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little
while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought
my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_
obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund—by
ourselves—against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he
_were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have
hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will
be so good, won’t you?”

Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them
in a very steady voice.

“Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?” continued Miss
Crawford, opening her book. “Here it is. I did not think much of it at
first—but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and
_that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things?
Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the
difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him,
and get on by degrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes.”

“Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must
_read_ the part, for I can say very little of it.”

“_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for
it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the
front of the stage. There—very good school-room chairs, not made for a
theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick
their feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your
governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could
Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we are
rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the
dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged
of course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If
_they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in
upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the
times when they were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was
with me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off
as well as I could, by whispering to him, ‘We shall have an excellent
Agatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely
_maternal_ in her voice and countenance.’ Was not that well done of me?
He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy.”

She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the
idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but
with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of
a man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;
and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought
a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all.

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three on
this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same
business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure
were likely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book,
and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to
prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the
house; and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown
together, of comparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny’s
kind offices.

_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under
the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to
both to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now
rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,
not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was
wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with
the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it
and tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within
her shrank—she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been
otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained
her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too
much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To
prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than
enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching
them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of
Edmund’s manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he
wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was
thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped
they would ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced
herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other;
and when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to
believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling
in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering
exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must
stand the brunt of it again that very day.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to
take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to
return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every
one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a
general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying
such an advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the
morning’s rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed
away. All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the
gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram,
Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour;
and having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were
waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.

They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant.
She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which
he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his
wife.

“Dr. Grant is ill,” said she, with mock solemnity. “He has been ill
ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it
tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since”.

Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant’s non-attendance was sad indeed.
Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable
amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not
act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The
comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom,
as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes
began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, “If Miss
Price would be so good as to _read_ the part.” She was immediately
surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, “Do,
Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you.”

But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was
not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather
gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of
attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and
distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly
punished.

“You have only to _read_ the part,” said Henry Crawford, with renewed
entreaty.

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

Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as
Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on
her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was
satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,
while the others prepared to begin.

They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be
struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had
proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and
Julia, appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, “My father
is come! He is in the hall at this moment.”




CHAPTER XIX


How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater
number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All
felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake
was harboured anywhere. Julia’s looks were an evidence of the fact that
made it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not
a word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance
was looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the
most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might
consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr.
Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was
sinking under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm,
every other heart was suggesting, “What will become of us? what is to
be done now?” It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were
the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.

Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness
had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at
the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of
devotion to Agatha’s narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and
as soon as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock
of her words, he still kept his station and retained her sister’s hand,
her wounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she
had been white before, she turned out of the room, saying, “_I_ need
not be afraid of appearing before him.”

Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers
stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few
words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of
opinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them
with the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the very
circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest
support. Henry Crawford’s retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment
of such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and
anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination,
and was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly
heedless of Mr. Rushworth’s repeated question of, “Shall I go too? Had
not I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?” but they
were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer
the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his
respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with
delighted haste.

Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been
quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims
on Sir Thomas’s affection was much too humble to give her any idea of
classing herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and
gain a little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that
was endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even
innocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her
former habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it
compassion for him and for almost every one of the party on the
development before him, with solicitude on Edmund’s account
indescribable. She had found a seat, where in excessive trembling she
was enduring all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no
longer under any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of
vexation, lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival as a
most untoward event, and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been
twice as long on his passage, or were still in Antigua.

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better
understanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that
must ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt the
total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr.
Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for
the evening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal
being renewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were
over, and he might be at leisure to be amused by it. The Crawfords
laughed at the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their
walking quietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr.
Yates’s accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage.
But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much of
parental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive that anything
of the kind was necessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, “he
preferred remaining where he was, that he might pay his respects to the
old gentleman handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not
think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away.”

Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she
staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was
settled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister’s apology,
saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the
dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.

Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after
pausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which
the outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in
desperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected
family, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear.
Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, “But where
is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?”—and on perceiving her,
came forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,
calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing
with decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to
feel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so
kind, so _very_ kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his
voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful
in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light
and looked at her again—inquired particularly after her health, and
then, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for her
appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having
succeeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his
belief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next
after her family, especially William: and his kindness altogether was
such as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and
thinking his return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift
her eyes to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the
burnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender
feeling was increased, and she was miserable in considering how much
unsuspected vexation was probably ready to burst on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion now
seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the
talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own
house, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him
communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to
give every information as to his voyage, and answer every question of
his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had
latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,
having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private
vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little
particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,
were most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with
heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him—interrupting himself
more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them
all at home—coming unexpectedly as he did—all collected together
exactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth
was not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking
had already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in
the objects most intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing
disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth’s appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking
him already.

By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,
unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to
see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to
place her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.
She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained
so sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side,
and give all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband.
She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time
had been irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great
deal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have
answered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the
young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see him
again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole
comprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly to
feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it
would have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.

Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her sister.
Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas’s
disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for
her judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive
caution with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth’s pink satin
cloak as her brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew
any sign of alarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It
had left her nothing to do. Instead of being sent for out of the room,
and seeing him first, and having to spread the happy news through the
house, Sir Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the
nerves of his wife and children, had sought no confidant but the
butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously into the
drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an office on which
she had always depended, whether his arrival or his death were to be
the thing unfolded; and was now trying to be in a bustle without having
anything to bustle about, and labouring to be important where nothing
was wanted but tranquillity and silence. Would Sir Thomas have
consented to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper with
troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen with injunctions of
despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner: he would take
nothing, nothing till tea came—he would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs.
Norris was at intervals urging something different; and in the most
interesting moment of his passage to England, when the alarm of a
French privateer was at the height, she burst through his recital with
the proposal of soup. “Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would
be a much better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin of soup.”

Sir Thomas could not be provoked. “Still the same anxiety for
everybody’s comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,” was his answer. “But indeed
I would rather have nothing but tea.”

“Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose
you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night.” She carried
this point, and Sir Thomas’s narrative proceeded.

At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were
exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now
at one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not
long: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and
what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, “How do
you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir
Thomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting.”

“Indeed! and what have you been acting?”

“Oh! they’ll tell you all about it.”

“The _all_ will soon be told,” cried Tom hastily, and with affected
unconcern; “but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now.
You will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by
way of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last
week, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant
rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to
the house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the
3rd. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no
attempting anything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood,
and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace
between us, and might each have killed six times as many, but we
respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire.
I do not think you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than
they were. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life
as this year. I hope you will take a day’s sport there yourself, sir,
soon.”

For the present the danger was over, and Fanny’s sick feelings
subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas,
getting up, said that he found that he could not be any longer in the
house without just looking into his own dear room, every agitation was
returning. He was gone before anything had been said to prepare him for
the change he must find there; and a pause of alarm followed his
disappearance. Edmund was the first to speak—

“Something must be done,” said he.

“It is time to think of our visitors,” said Maria, still feeling her
hand pressed to Henry Crawford’s heart, and caring little for anything
else. “Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?”

Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.

“Then poor Yates is all alone,” cried Tom. “I will go and fetch him. He
will be no bad assistant when it all comes out.”

To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the
first meeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good
deal surprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his
eye round it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general
air of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from
before the billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had
scarcely more than time to feel astonished at all this, before there
were sounds from the billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some
one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did not know the
voice—more than talking—almost hallooing. He stepped to the door,
rejoicing at that moment in having the means of immediate
communication, and, opening it, found himself on the stage of a
theatre, and opposed to a ranting young man, who appeared likely to
knock him down backwards. At the very moment of Yates perceiving Sir
Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the
whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram entered at the other end of
the room; and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping his
countenance. His father’s looks of solemnity and amazement on this his
first appearance on any stage, and the gradual metamorphosis of the
impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates,
making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such an
exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have lost upon
any account. It would be the last—in all probability—the last scene on
that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer. The house would
close with the greatest eclat.

There was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of
merriment. It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist
the introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir
Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which
was due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased with
the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its
commencement. Mr. Yates’s family and connexions were sufficiently known
to him to render his introduction as the “particular friend,” another
of the hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome;
and it needed all the felicity of being again at home, and all the
forbearance it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding
himself thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous
exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so
untoward a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt
sure of disapproving, and whose easy indifference and volubility in the
course of the first five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of
the two.

Tom understood his father’s thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be
always as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to
see, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be
some ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance
his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that
when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate of the
billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond a very allowable
curiosity. A few minutes were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations
on each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak
a few words of calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr.
Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen
returned to the drawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of
gravity which was not lost on all.

“I come from your theatre,” said he composedly, as he sat down; “I
found myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room—but
in every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the
smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a
character. It appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by
candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit.” And then
he would have changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over
domestic matters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to
catch Sir Thomas’s meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion
enough to allow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the
others with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the
topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks
relative to it, and finally would make him hear the whole history of
his disappointment at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely,
but found much to offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his
ill-opinion of Mr. Yates’s habits of thinking, from the beginning to
the end of the story; and when it was over, could give him no other
assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.

“This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting,” said Tom, after a
moment’s thought. “My friend Yates brought the infection from
Ecclesford, and it spread—as those things always spread, you know,
sir—the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the
sort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again.”

Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and
immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were
doing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy
conclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of
affairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not
only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his friends
as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of
unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the
face on which his own eyes were fixed—from seeing Sir Thomas’s dark
brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters
and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a
language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not
less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind
her aunt’s end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all
that was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his
father she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it
was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas’s look
implied, “On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been
about?” She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to
utter, “Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!”

Mr. Yates was still talking. “To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in
the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going
through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole.
Our company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home,
that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the
honour of your company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the
result. We bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young
performers; we bespeak your indulgence.”

“My indulgence shall be given, sir,” replied Sir Thomas gravely, “but
without any other rehearsal.” And with a relenting smile, he added, “I
come home to be happy and indulgent.” Then turning away towards any or
all of the rest, he tranquilly said, “Mr. and Miss Crawford were
mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable
acquaintance?”

Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely
without particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love
or acting, could speak very handsomely of both. “Mr. Crawford was a
most pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,
lively girl.”

Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. “I do not say he is not
gentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not
above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man.”

Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise
at the speaker.

“If I must say what I think,” continued Mr. Rushworth, “in my opinion
it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much
of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think
we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among
ourselves, and doing nothing.”

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, “I
am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It
gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and
quick-sighted, and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel,
is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for domestic
tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much
exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most
favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with
you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such
weight.”

Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth’s opinion in better words
than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a
genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with
better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to
value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to
smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but
by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir
Thomas’s good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best
towards preserving that good opinion a little longer.




CHAPTER XX


Edmund’s first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and
give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own
share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his
motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that
his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his
judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating
himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one
amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of
defence or palliation. “We have all been more or less to blame,” said
he, “every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has
judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have
been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think
of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish.”

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,
and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must;
he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands
with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and
forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could,
after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the
remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter into
any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to
believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation.
The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of
every preparation, would be sufficient.

There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to
learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help
giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might
have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have
disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming
the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision
themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of
unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must
regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of
their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements
should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as
nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was
ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was
so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her
influence was insufficient—that she might have talked in vain. Her only
resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn
the current of Sir Thomas’s ideas into a happier channel. She had a
great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to
the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many
sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden
removals from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust
and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most
considerable saving had always arisen, and more than one bad servant
been detected. But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest
support and glory was in having formed the connexion with the
Rushworths. _There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all the
credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth’s admiration of Maria to any effect.
“If I had not been active,” said she, “and made a point of being
introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay the
first visit, I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have come
of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who
wants a great deal of encouragement, and there were girls enough on the
catch for him if we had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was
ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did
persuade her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle
of winter, and the roads almost impassable, but I did persuade her.”

“I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady
Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not
have been—”

“My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day!
I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four
horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his
great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on
account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since
Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter—and
this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room
before we set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his
wig; so I said, ‘Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I
shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has
been upon the leaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear.’
But, however, I soon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and
as I hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart
quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes
about Stoke, where, what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it
was worse than anything you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about
him. And then the poor horses too! To see them straining away! You know
how I always feel for the horses. And when we got to the bottom of
Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? You will laugh at me; but I
got out and walked up. I did indeed. It might not be saving them much,
but it was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease and be
dragged up at the expense of those noble animals. I caught a dreadful
cold, but _that_ I did not regard. My object was accomplished in the
visit.”

“I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that
might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr.
Rushworth’s manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to
be his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family
party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly
as one could wish.”

“Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like
him. He is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good
qualities; and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite
laughed at about it, for everybody considers it as my doing. ‘Upon my
word, Mrs. Norris,’ said Mrs. Grant the other day, ‘if Mr. Rushworth
were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater
respect.’”

Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her
flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that
where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her
kindness did sometimes overpower her judgment.

It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied
but a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted
concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to
examine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into
his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and
methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as
master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in
pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room, and
given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the
pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.
The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,
ruined all the coachman’s sponges, and made five of the under-servants
idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or
two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,
even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers’ Vows in the
house, for he was burning all that met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas’s intentions,
though as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his
friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom
had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his
father’s particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as
acutely as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the
same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation
was such, that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his
friend’s youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the
baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a
little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in
Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir
Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think
it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it
without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and
often been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never,
in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so
unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was
not a man to be endured but for his children’s sake, and he might be
thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay
a few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind
was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his
daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a
good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that
Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was
disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance
that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and
all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set
off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped
for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble
of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage,
not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of
congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the
first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly
divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August
began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a
sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,
did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were
followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the
house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects
to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the
breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon
appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of
the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and
so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who
had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice
whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present
happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in
that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time
required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his
uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a
renewal of Lovers’ Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he
should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition
with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play
should not be lost by _his_ absence.

“From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,” said he; “I will
attend you from any place in England, at an hour’s notice.”

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister.
He could immediately say with easy fluency, “I am sorry you are going;
but as to our play, _that_ is all over—entirely at an end” (looking
significantly at his father). “The painter was sent off yesterday, and
very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_
would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody
there.”

“It is about my uncle’s usual time.”

“When do you think of going?”

“I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day.”

“Whose stables do you use at Bath?” was the next question; and while
this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted
neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of
it with tolerable calmness.

To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with
only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what
availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not
voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting
what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.
He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand
which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were
alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the
agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose
from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury
the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general
civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as
it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was
gone—he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting
bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her.
Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two hours
afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish
vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.

Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be
odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to
dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added
to desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it
at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned
with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling—from
the sincerity of Edmund’s too partial regard, to the unconcern of his
mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her,
and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and
could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it;
but with so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_
activity to keep pace with her wishes?

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure
Sir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his
family, the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been
irksome; but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was
every way vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of
Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been
quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford’s going or staying: but his good
wishes for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him
to the hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had
staid to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at
Mansfield, the removal of everything appertaining to the play: he left
the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas
hoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected
with the scheme, and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of
its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might
have distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such
talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she
happened to be particularly in want of green baize.




CHAPTER XXI


Sir Thomas’s return made a striking change in the ways of the family,
independent of Lovers’ Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an
altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits
of many others saddened—it was all sameness and gloom compared with the
past—a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little
intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from
intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for
any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only
addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father’s feelings, nor
could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. “But they,”
he observed to Fanny, “have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they
seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible
of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was
away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is,
that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth
when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their
society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people
he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among
ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at
his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings
pass away with more enjoyment even to my father.”

“Do you think so?” said Fanny: “in my opinion, my uncle would not like
_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and
that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does
not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be—I mean
before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always
much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if
there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence
has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness;
but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry,
except when my uncle was in town. No young people’s are, I suppose,
when those they look up to are at home”.

“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his reply, after a short
consideration. “I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they
were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being
lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!
I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.”

“I suppose I am graver than other people,” said Fanny. “The evenings do
not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.
I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more
than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I
dare say.”

“Why should you dare say _that_?” (smiling). “Do you want to be told
that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?
But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go
to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask
your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and
though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and
trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time.”

Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.

“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny—and that is the long and
the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something
more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been
thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did
admire you till now—and now he does. Your complexion is so
improved!—and you have gained so much countenance!—and your figure—nay,
Fanny, do not turn away about it—it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear
an uncle’s admiration, what is to become of you? You must really begin
to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try
not to mind growing up into a pretty woman.”

“Oh! don’t talk so, don’t talk so,” cried Fanny, distressed by more
feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he
had done with the subject, and only added more seriously—

“Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I
only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too
silent in the evening circle.”

“But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you
hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?”

“I did—and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It
would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.”

“And I longed to do it—but there was such a dead silence! And while my
cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all
interested in the subject, I did not like—I thought it would appear as
if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity
and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to
feel.”

“Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:
that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women
were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those
were her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who
distinguishes characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable!
She certainly understands _you_ better than you are understood by the
greater part of those who have known you so long; and with regard to
some others, I can perceive, from occasional lively hints, the
unguarded expressions of the moment, that she could define _many_ as
accurately, did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my
father! She must admire him as a fine-looking man, with most
gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, having seen
him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive. Could they be
much together, I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy
her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers. I wish they met
more frequently! I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike on
his side.”

“She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of
you,” said Fanny, with half a sigh, “to have any such apprehension. And
Sir Thomas’s wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so
very natural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little
while, I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way,
allowing for the difference of the time of year.”

“This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her
infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and
November is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant
is very anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on.”

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing,
and leave untouched all Miss Crawford’s resources—her accomplishments,
her spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her
into any observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford’s kind
opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she
began to talk of something else.

“To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.
Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle
may continue to like Mr. Rushworth.”

“That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow’s
visit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread the
stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to
follow—the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much
longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give
something that Rushworth and Maria had never met.”

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.
Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth’s
deference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of
the truth—that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant in
business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without
seeming much aware of it himself.

He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel
grave on Maria’s account, tried to understand _her_ feelings. Little
observation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the
most favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth
was careless and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas
resolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the
alliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her
happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps,
been accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better,
she was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears,
inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and
assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the
connexion entirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the
prospect of it. He would act for her and release her. Maria had a
moment’s struggle as she listened, and only a moment’s: when her father
ceased, she was able to give her answer immediately, decidedly, and
with no apparent agitation. She thanked him for his great attention,
his paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in supposing she had
the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible
of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had
the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth’s character and disposition, and
could not have a doubt of her happiness with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge
the matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others.
It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;
and thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr.
Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could
now speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly
without the prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed.
Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to
be so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she
could dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character,
there would certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed
young woman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more
attached to her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield
must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all
probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent
enjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas, happy
to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder, the
reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a
marriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability and
influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter’s
disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a
state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:
that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from
the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her
actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve,
determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future,
that her father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four
days after Henry Crawford’s leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were
at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or
absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been
different; but after another three or four days, when there was no
return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope
of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all
the comfort that pride and self revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that
he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her
prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the
retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London,
independence and splendour, for _his_ sake. Independence was more
needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She
was less and less able to endure the restraint which her father
imposed. The liberty which his absence had given was now become
absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as
possible, and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and
the world, for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and
varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have
been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the
marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind
she was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home,
restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection,
and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The
preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and
spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that
a very few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must
precede the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the
fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in
November removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with
true dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of
Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,
in the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and
before the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which
gave Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two
bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother
stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried
to cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing
could be objected to when it came under the discussion of the
neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and
bridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same
chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In
everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest
investigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father
must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his
wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.
Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending
it at the Park to support her sister’s spirits, and drinking the health
of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all
joyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything;
and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she
had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the
smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought
up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to
Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was
new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.
When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the
wider range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the
sisters had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their
former good understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to
make each of them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time.
Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to
his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as
Maria, though she might not have struggled through so much to obtain
them, and could better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm
which required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly
contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to
its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed
them; and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about
the house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of
affectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!




CHAPTER XXII


Fanny’s consequence increased on the departure of her cousins.
Becoming, as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room,
the only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she
had hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to
be more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever
been before; and “Where is Fanny?” became no uncommon question, even
without her being wanted for any one’s convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In
that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr.
Norris’s death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the
gloom and dirt of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her
visits there, beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs.
Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the
easiest self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest
thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of
improvement in pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt
Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and
being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter
under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their
premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her
part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant
himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to
be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible;
and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal
rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all
her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a
single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the
sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price
dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an
event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her.
She was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being
useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first
allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being
obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and
waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning
downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the
rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was
thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the
period of dressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might
have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,
and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at
the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant’s
carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was
threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such
weather might occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that
score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts, she was
perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage
aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain, her being in
such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the
room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an
acknowledgment of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession,
which could hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since
its being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and
natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since
the instrument’s arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but
Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject,
was concerned at her own neglect; and “Shall I play to you now?” and
“What will you have?” were questions immediately following with the
readiest good-humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener
who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and
who shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny’s eyes,
straying to the window on the weather’s being evidently fair, spoke
what she felt must be done.

“Another quarter of an hour,” said Miss Crawford, “and we shall see how
it will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those
clouds look alarming.”

“But they are passed over,” said Fanny. “I have been watching them.
This weather is all from the south.”

“South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not
set forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play
something more to you—a very pretty piece—and your cousin Edmund’s
prime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin’s favourite.”

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that
sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly
awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again and
again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with
constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her,
with superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,
and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely
impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;
and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to
take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the
harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at
home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between
them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams’ going away—an
intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford’s desire of something
new, and which had little reality in Fanny’s feelings. Fanny went to
her every two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could
not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without
ever thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being
sought after now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher
pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_
often at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry
on people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went,
however, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs.
Grant’s shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of
year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches
now comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the
midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny’s on the sweets of so
protracted an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold
gust shaking down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and
walk for warmth.

“This is pretty, very pretty,” said Fanny, looking around her as they
were thus sitting together one day; “every time I come into this
shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago,
this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the
field, never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything;
and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say
whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in
another three years, we may be forgetting—almost forgetting what it was
before. How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and
the changes of the human mind!” And following the latter train of
thought, she soon afterwards added: “If any one faculty of our nature
may be called _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory.
There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,
the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our
intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so
obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so
tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way;
but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly
past finding out.”

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and
Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought
must interest.

“It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste
Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in
the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!”

“Yes,” replied Miss Crawford carelessly, “it does very well for a place
of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between
ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country
parson ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind.”

“I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!” said Fanny, in reply. “My
uncle’s gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and
so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.
The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!
When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some
countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that
does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun
should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their
existence. You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors,
especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into
this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one’s eyes on the
commonest natural production without finding food for a rambling
fancy.”

“To say the truth,” replied Miss Crawford, “I am something like the
famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no
wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had
told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be
spending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should not
have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and,
moreover, the quietest five months I ever passed.”

“_Too_ quiet for you, I believe.”

“I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,” and her eyes
brightened as she spoke, “take it all and all, I never spent so happy a
summer. But then,” with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, “there
is no saying what it may lead to.”

Fanny’s heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising or
soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed
animation, soon went on—

“I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence
than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to spend
_half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances, very
pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family
connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first
society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even
more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round
of such amusements to nothing worse than a _tête-à-tête_ with the
person one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing
frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy
the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_.”

“Envy Mrs. Rushworth!” was all that Fanny attempted to say. “Come,
come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs.
Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great many gay,
brilliant, happy hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton
another year. Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public
blessing; for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth’s wife must be to
fill her house, and give the best balls in the country.”

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till
suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, “Ah!
here he is.” It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then
appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. “My sister and Mr.
Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.
Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram
so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it.”

“How differently we feel!” cried Fanny. “To me, the sound of _Mr._
Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or
character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that’s all. But there is
nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of
kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of
chivalry and warm affections.”

“I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_
Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the
annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr.
Thomas. Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture
upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before
they can begin?”

Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his
seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance
which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship
between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:
and to the credit of the lover’s understanding, be it stated, that he
did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater
gainer by such a friendship.

“Well,” said Miss Crawford, “and do you not scold us for our
imprudence? What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be
talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so
again?”

“Perhaps I might have scolded,” said Edmund, “if either of you had been
sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a
great deal.”

“They cannot have been sitting long,” cried Mrs. Grant, “for when I
went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then
they were walking.”

“And really,” added Edmund, “the day is so mild, that your sitting down
for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must not
always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater
liberties in November than in May.”

“Upon my word,” cried Miss Crawford, “you are two of the most
disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no
giving you a moment’s uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been
suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr.
Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre
against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very
little hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my
own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little.”

“Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest
chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a
different quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would
have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time—for here
are some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights
are so mild, and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a
sudden change of weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking
everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one;
and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which
I particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how
much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the
day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are something like
grievances, and make me think the weather most unseasonably close.”

“The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!” said Miss Crawford
archly. “Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.”

“My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St.
Paul’s, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you
could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have
me do?”

“Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often,
and never lose your temper.”

“Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live
where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I
dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and
the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and
unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing
forth bitter lamentations.”

“I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. A
large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It
certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it.”

“You intend to be very rich?” said Edmund, with a look which, to
Fanny’s eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.

“To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?”

“I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my
power to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has
only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no
doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor.”

“By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your
income, and all that. I understand you—and a very proper plan it is for
a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent
connexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have not
much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do
anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth
and consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means—but I shall not envy
you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much
greater respect for those that are honest and rich.”

“Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I
have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is
exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something
between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am
anxious for your not looking down on.”

“But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look
down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to
distinction.”

“But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any
distinction?”

This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an “Oh!”
of some length from the fair lady before she could add, “You ought to
be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago.”

“_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in
parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly
for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No,
Miss Crawford,” he added, in a more serious tone, “there _are_
distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without
any chance—absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining—but
they are of a different character.”

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of
manner on Miss Crawford’s side as she made some laughing answer, was
sorrowfull food for Fanny’s observation; and finding herself quite
unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now
following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home
immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of
the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that
she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the
previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just
then, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she
directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to
recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had
walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.

Fanny’s hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund’s
attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace
was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through
which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as
they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund’s manner, that he
_did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but
be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant
to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for
an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden
recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company
too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in
the events of Fanny’s life, that she was all surprise and
embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her
“but she did not suppose it would be in her power,” was looking at
Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having
such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half
a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt’s account, could
not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her,
and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should
be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his
encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon
settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might
expect her.

“And you know what your dinner will be,” said Mrs. Grant, smiling—“the
turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,” turning to her
husband, “cook insists upon the turkey’s being dressed to-morrow.”

“Very well, very well,” cried Dr. Grant, “all the better; I am glad to
hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.
Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want
to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is
all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or
whatever you and your cook chuse to give us.”

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate
discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest
satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy
which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk;
for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for
any other.




CHAPTER XXIII


“But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?” said Lady Bertram. “How came she
to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this
sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.
Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?”

“If you put such a question to her,” cried Edmund, preventing his
cousin’s speaking, “Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my
dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she
should not.”

“I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never
did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never
asked Fanny.”

“If you cannot do without me, ma’am—” said Fanny, in a self-denying
tone.

“But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.”

“To be sure, so I shall.”

“Suppose you take my father’s opinion, ma’am.”

“That’s well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as
soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.”

“As you please, ma’am, on that head; but I meant my father’s opinion as
to the _propriety_ of the invitation’s being accepted or not; and I
think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by
Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted.”

“I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised
that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.”

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any
purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it
did, her own evening’s comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in
Lady Bertram’s mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in
for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she
called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with “Sir
Thomas, stop a moment—I have something to say to you.”

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her
voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her
story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear
herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her
nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew—more anxious perhaps than
she ought to be—for what was it after all whether she went or staid?
but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and
with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at
last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly
submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It
began, on Lady Bertram’s part, with—“I have something to tell you that
will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner.”

“Well,” said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.

“Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?”

“She will be late,” said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; “but what is
your difficulty?”

Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his
mother’s story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, “So
strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her.”

“But is it not very natural,” observed Edmund, “that Mrs. Grant should
wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?”

“Nothing can be more natural,” said Sir Thomas, after a short
deliberation; “nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,
in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant’s shewing civility to Miss
Price, to Lady Bertram’s niece, could never want explanation. The only
surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its
being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional
answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she
must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see
no reason why she should be denied the indulgence.”

“But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?”

“Indeed I think you may.”

“She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here.”

“Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us,
and I shall certainly be at home.”

“Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.”

The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way
to his own.

“Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest
hesitation on your uncle’s side. He had but one opinion. You are to
go.”

“Thank you, I am _so_ glad,” was Fanny’s instinctive reply; though when
she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,
“And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or
hearing something there to pain me?”

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an
engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in
hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined
out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three
people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of
preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor
assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and
directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to
anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence
of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill
humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece’s pleasure, both
present and future, as much as possible.

“Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention
and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for
thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to
look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that
there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of
way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon
ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is
meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended
to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to
_us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come
into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia
had been at home, you would not have been asked at all.”

Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant’s part of
the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only
say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,
and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt’s evening work in such a
state as to prevent her being missed.

“Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you
would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy
about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and
find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the
very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I
cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant
should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table,
too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been
contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their
senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his
own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how
infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have
been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of
their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five—only five to be sitting
round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I
dare say.”

Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.

“The nonsense and folly of people’s stepping out of their rank and
trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give
_you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of
us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself
forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your
cousins—as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never
do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and
last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage,
you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night,
you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle
_that_.”

“Yes, ma’am, I should not think of anything else.”

“And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never
saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage
as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for
you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage
will not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what
may happen, and take your things accordingly.”

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims to
comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon
afterwards, just opening the door, said, “Fanny, at what time would you
have the carriage come round?” she felt a degree of astonishment which
made it impossible for her to speak.

“My dear Sir Thomas!” cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, “Fanny can
walk.”

“Walk!” repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity,
and coming farther into the room. “My niece walk to a dinner engagement
at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?”

“Yes, sir,” was Fanny’s humble answer, given with the feelings almost
of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her
in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of
the room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words
spoken in angry agitation—

“Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is
upon Edmund’s account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night.”

But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for
herself, and herself alone: and her uncle’s consideration of her,
coming immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her
some tears of gratitude when she was alone.

The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the
gentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being
late, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them
off in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.

“Now I must look at you, Fanny,” said Edmund, with the kind smile of an
affectionate brother, “and tell you how I like you; and as well as I
can judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got
on?”

“The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin’s
marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it
as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity
all the winter. I hope you do not think me too fine.”

“A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no
finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems
very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown
something the same?”

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and
coach-house.

“Heyday!” said Edmund, “here’s company, here’s a carriage! who have
they got to meet us?” And letting down the side-glass to distinguish,
“’Tis Crawford’s, Crawford’s barouche, I protest! There are his own two
men pushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This
is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him.”

There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very
differently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe
her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed
the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long
enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks
of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his
sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A
very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the
exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there
might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the
party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to
sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for
though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite
of her aunt Norris’s opinion, to being the principal lady in company,
and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while
they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in
which she was not required to take any part—there was so much to be
said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two
young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and
Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford and
Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to
listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not
compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of
interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending
for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by
Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of
his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to
resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of
the open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as
civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather
not have him speak to her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on
seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits.
Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and
apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,
as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them
spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled
in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of
business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and
Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with
more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which
made Fanny quite hate him, he said, “So! Rushworth and his fair bride
are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!”

“Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they
not? And Julia is with them.”

“And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off.”

“Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he
figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I
think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with
Mr. Yates.”

“Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!” continued Crawford.
“Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now—his toil and
his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever
want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her”; adding, with a
momentary seriousness, “She is too good for him—much too good.” And
then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing
Fanny, he said, “You were Mr. Rushworth’s best friend. Your kindness
and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in
trying to make it possible for him to learn his part—in trying to give
him a brain which nature had denied—to mix up an understanding for him
out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough
himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had
honour from all the rest of the party.”

Fanny coloured, and said nothing.

“It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!” he exclaimed, breaking forth
again, after a few minutes’ musing. “I shall always look back on our
theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such
an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all
alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour
of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some
little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier.”

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, “Never
happier!—never happier than when doing what you must know was not
justifiable!—never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and
unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!”

“We were unlucky, Miss Price,” he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid
the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her
feelings, “we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other
week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal
of events—if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just
for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a
difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any
tremendous weather—but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I
think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week’s calm
in the Atlantic at that season.”

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face,
said, with a firmer tone than usual, “As far as _I_ am concerned, sir,
I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it
all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had
gone quite far enough.”

She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and
never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled
and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few
moments’ silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,
and as if the candid result of conviction, “I believe you are right. It
was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy.” And then
turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other
subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not
advance in any.

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now
observed, “Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to
discuss.”

“The most interesting in the world,” replied her brother—“how to make
money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving
Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I
find he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the
dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will
have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned
without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have less than seven
hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger
brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all
for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I
suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice.”

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, “Nothing amuses
me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance
of those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look
rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to
seven hundred a year.”

“Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.
Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly
well off for a cadet of even a baronet’s family. By the time he is four
or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do
for it.”

Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do
and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she
checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned
when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.

“Bertram,” said Henry Crawford, “I shall make a point of coming to
Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose
to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not
you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend
with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time—as I shall do—not
to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence
preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a
pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that
Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.”

“I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,” said Edmund;
“for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more
sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man.”

“Will he not feel this?” thought Fanny. “No, he can feel nothing as he
ought.”

The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each
other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed
after tea—formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his
attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so—and Miss Crawford
took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her
tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when
Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her a question or observation,
which she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed
by what had passed to be in a humour for anything but music. With that
she soothed herself and amused her friend.

The assurance of Edmund’s being so soon to take orders, coming upon her
like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a
distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very
angry with him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to
think of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost
decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool
feelings. It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true
attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must know she
would never stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference.
She would henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond
immediate amusement. If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_
should do her no harm.




CHAPTER XXIV


Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give
another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and
written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at
his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the
coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, “And how do
you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?
I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a
plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?”

“To walk and ride with me, to be sure.”

“Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be
exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides,
_that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome
alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my
plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me.”

“Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two
cousins.”

“But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small
hole in Fanny Price’s heart. You do not seem properly aware of her
claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you
seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in
her looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and
therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different
creature from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet,
modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I
used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that
soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was
yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her
eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression
enough when she has anything to express. And then, her air, her manner,
her _tout_ _ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown
two inches, at least, since October.”

“Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare
her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so
well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me.
The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,
and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty—not
strikingly pretty—but ‘pretty enough,’ as people say; a sort of beauty
that grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet
smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it
may all be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having
nobody else to look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation
with her, you never will persuade me that it is in compliment to her
beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and
folly.”

Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards
said, “I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not
understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What
is her character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did
she draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak.
I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to
entertain her, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so
grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, ‘I
will not like you, I am determined not to like you’; and I say she
shall.”

“Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is,
her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes
her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do
desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love,
perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge
her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a
great deal of feeling.”

“It can be but for a fortnight,” said Henry; “and if a fortnight can
kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I
will not do her any harm, dear little soul! I only want her to look
kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for
me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and
talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions
and pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go
away that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more.”

“Moderation itself!” said Mary. “I can have no scruples now. Well, you
will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself,
for we are a great deal together.”

And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her
fate, a fate which, had not Fanny’s heart been guarded in a way
unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she
deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young
ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never to
be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent,
manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to
believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness of
disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have
escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of a
fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some
previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been
engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and
disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking, his
continued attentions—continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting
themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her
character—obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She
had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as
ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners
were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that
it was impossible not to be civil to him in return.

A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few
days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his
views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness
which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her
brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England
again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,
written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with the
first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when
Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped
would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over
this letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the
kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in
reply.

It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly
master of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having
such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then
excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to
town to apply for information as to the probable period of the
Antwerp’s return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which
attended his early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the
reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her,
as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many
years taken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval
intelligence. He proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first
feelings, of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given.
But his intention, the kindness of his intention, was thankfully
acknowledged: quite thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond
the common timidity of her mind by the flow of her love for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt
of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a
midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already
have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays
might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his
best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who
had done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the
reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as
soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been
in the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in
an agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on
the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her
a brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither
ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with
him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling
had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly
intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was
exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as
each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they
both advised Mrs. Norris’s continuing where she was, instead of rushing
out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.

William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the
pleasure of receiving, in his protégé, certainly a very different
person from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of
an open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and
respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of
such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,
and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness
could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable
from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him
the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been
yearning to do through many a past year. That time, however, did
gradually come, forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her
own, and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was
the first object of his love, but it was a love which his stronger
spirits, and bolder temper, made it as natural for him to express as to
feel. On the morrow they were walking about together with true
enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow renewed a _tête-à-tête_ which
Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, even before Edmund
had pointed it out to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or
unlooked-for instance of Edmund’s consideration of her in the last few
months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,
as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and
friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes
and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,
dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give
her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers
and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all
the comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield;
ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or
differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of
their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the
whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over
again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the
fondest recollection. An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in
which even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the
same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and
habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no
subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a long and
unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connexion can
justify, if such precious remains of the earliest attachments are ever
entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes
almost everything, is at others worse than nothing. But with William
and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and
freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate
attachment, and feeling the influence of time and absence only in its
increase.

An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who
had hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck
with it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the
young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards
Fanny’s head, “Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already,
though when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could
not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the
Commissioner’s at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they
were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything”; and saw, with lively
admiration, the glow of Fanny’s cheek, the brightness of her eye, the
deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing
any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at
sea must supply.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.
Fanny’s attractions increased—increased twofold; for the sensibility
which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an
attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of
her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to
be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young
unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A
fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals
were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in
seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by
his histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details
with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,
professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything
that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had
already seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the
West Indies; in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore
by the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven years had
known every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer.
With such means in his power he had a right to be listened to; and
though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room, and disturb everybody
in quest of two needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in
the midst of her nephew’s account of a shipwreck or an engagement,
everybody else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of
such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her
work to say, “Dear me! how disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go
to sea.”

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been
at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed,
his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before
he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such
proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of
endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful
contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing
himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much
self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!

The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie
of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund
as to his plans for the next day’s hunting; and he found it was as well
to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.
In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a
kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and
curiosity up to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and
Crawford could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to
himself, and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew
better than his nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to
reason away in Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by
all that he could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries,
of the scrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough
horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from
dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the management of a
high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and
well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to the
risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the
horse which he had fully intended it should produce. When it was
proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could allow it to be
a kindness, and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was
one minute tendered to his use again; and the next, with the greatest
cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted, made over to his use
entirely so long as he remained in Northamptonshire.




CHAPTER XXV


The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly
restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the old
intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry
Crawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it, but
much was still owing to Sir Thomas’s more than toleration of the
neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from
the cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find the
Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though
infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous
matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent
possibilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a
littleness the being quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid
perceiving, in a grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat
distinguishing his niece—nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously)
from giving a more willing assent to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the
general invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many
doubts as to whether it were worth while, “because Sir Thomas seemed so
ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!” proceeded from
good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr.
Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the
course of that very visit that he first began to think that any one in
the habit of such idle observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr.
Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in
a good proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;
and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual
style of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of all
to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold
either the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and
who did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the
servants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of
its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.

In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.
Grant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would
remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly
complying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,
speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram
soon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for
her own choice between the games, and being required either to draw a
card for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.

“What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will amuse
me most?”

Sir Thomas, after a moment’s thought, recommended speculation. He was a
whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much
amuse him to have her for a partner.

“Very well,” was her ladyship’s contented answer; “then speculation, if
you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach
me.”

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own
equal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in
her life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment’s indecision again; but upon
everybody’s assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the
easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford’s stepping forward with a
most earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss
Price, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs.
Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime
intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss
Crawford’s direction, were arranged round the other. It was a fine
arrangement for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his
hands full of business, having two persons’ cards to manage as well as
his own; for though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself
mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to
inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which,
especially in any competition with William, was a work of some
difficulty; and as for Lady Bertram, he must continue in charge of all
her fame and fortune through the whole evening; and if quick enough to
keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began, must direct her
in whatever was to be done with them to the end of it.

He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and
preeminent in all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful
impudence that could do honour to the game; and the round table was
altogether a very comfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and
orderly silence of the other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his
lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured
manner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs.
Grant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay
her compliments.

“I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game.”

“Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I do not know
what it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford does
all the rest.”

“Bertram,” said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity
of a little languor in the game, “I have never told you what happened
to me yesterday in my ride home.” They had been hunting together, and
were in the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield,
when his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had
been obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. “I told you
I lost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees,
because I can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my
usual luck—for I never do wrong without gaining by it—I found myself in
due time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was
suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the
midst of a retired little village between gently rising hills; a small
stream before me to be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to
my right—which church was strikingly large and handsome for the place,
and not a gentleman or half a gentleman’s house to be seen excepting
one—to be presumed the Parsonage—within a stone’s throw of the said
knoll and church. I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey.”

“It sounds like it,” said Edmund; “but which way did you turn after
passing Sewell’s farm?”

“I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to
answer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never
be able to prove that it was _not_ Thornton Lacey—for such it certainly
was.”

“You inquired, then?”

“No, I never inquire. But I _told_ a man mending a hedge that it was
Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it.”

“You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half so
much of the place.”

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford
well knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price’s knave
increased.

“Well,” continued Edmund, “and how did you like what you saw?”

“Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five
summers at least before the place is liveable.”

“No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you;
but I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and
when the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to
it.”

“The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut out
the blacksmith’s shop. The house must be turned to front the east
instead of the north—the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be
on that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be
done. And _there_ must be your approach, through what is at present the
garden. You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the
house; which will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to
the south-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty
yards up the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look
about me; and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The
meadows beyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well as what now _is_,
sweeping round from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to
the principal road through the village, must be all laid together, of
course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber.
They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them.
Then the stream—something must be done with the stream; but I could not
quite determine what. I had two or three ideas.”

“And I have two or three ideas also,” said Edmund, “and one of them is,
that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in
practice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I
think the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air
of a gentleman’s residence, without any very heavy expense, and that
must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me.”

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of
voice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of his
hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and
securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, “There, I will
stake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not
born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be
from not striving for it.”

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given to
secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about
Thornton Lacey.

“My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes to form
it in; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you will
find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of.
(Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie
just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it
the air of a gentleman’s residence. _That_ will be done by the removal
of the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never
saw a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a
gentleman’s residence, so much the look of a something above a mere
parsonage-house—above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is
not a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs as
windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square
farmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as
one might suppose a respectable old country family had lived in from
generation to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now
spending from two to three thousand a year in.” Miss Crawford listened,
and Edmund agreed to this. “The air of a gentleman’s residence,
therefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is
capable of much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for
that queen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does
not bid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By
some such improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you
to proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody’s striking
out a better) you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into
a _place_. From being the mere gentleman’s residence, it becomes, by
judicious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste,
modern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and
that house receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the
great landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road;
especially as there is no real squire’s house to dispute the point—a
circumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a
situation in point of privilege and independence beyond all
calculation. _You_ think with me, I hope” (turning with a softened
voice to Fanny). “Have you ever seen the place?”

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the
subject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a
bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued
with “No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her too
dearly, and your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir,
hands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the queen. She is
quite determined. The game will be yours,” turning to her again; “it
will certainly be yours.”

“And Fanny had much rather it were William’s,” said Edmund, smiling at
her. “Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!”

“Mr. Bertram,” said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, “you know
Henry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly engage in
anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Only
think how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were
produced there by our all going with him one hot day in August to drive
about the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we went, and
there we came home again; and what was done there is not to be told!”

Fanny’s eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression
more than grave—even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly
withdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his
sister, and laughingly replied, “I cannot say there was much done at
Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each
other, and bewildered.” As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he
added, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, “I should be sorry to
have my powers of _planning_ judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see
things very differently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then.”

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the
happy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas’s
capital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant’s great hands, she
called out, in high good-humour, “Sotherton! Yes, that is a place,
indeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of
luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth
will be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly
received by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their
relations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at
Brighton now, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr.
Rushworth’s fine fortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly
know the distance, but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not
very far off, you ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I
could send a little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your
cousins.”

“I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;
and if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a
smart place as that—poor scrubby midshipman as I am.”

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might
depend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas’s saying with authority,
“I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may
soon have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters
would be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr.
Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our
family as his own.”

“I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than
anything else,” was William’s only answer, in an undervoice, not meant
to reach far, and the subject dropped.

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford’s
behaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second
rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their
last play, he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the
object of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed
character.

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton
Lacey; and not being able to catch Edmund’s ear, was detailing it to
his fair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme
was to rent the house himself the following winter, that he might have
a home of his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not merely for the
use of it in the hunting-season (as he was then telling her), though
_that_ consideration had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that,
in spite of all Dr. Grant’s very great kindness, it was impossible for
him and his horses to be accommodated where they now were without
material inconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did
not depend upon one amusement or one season of the year: he had set his
heart upon having a something there that he could come to at any time,
a little homestall at his command, where all the holidays of his year
might be spent, and he might find himself continuing, improving, and
_perfecting_ that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park
family which was increasing in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard
and was not offended. There was no want of respect in the young man’s
address; and Fanny’s reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm
and uninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little,
assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination either of
appropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of
strengthening his views in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom
he was observed, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same subject
to Sir Thomas, in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.

“I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard
me telling Miss Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your
not influencing your son against such a tenant?”

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, “It is the only way, sir, in
which I could _not_ wish you established as a permanent neighbour; but
I hope, and believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton
Lacey. Edmund, am I saying too much?”

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on
understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.

“Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford, though
I refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Consider the house as
half your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own
improved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved plan that
may occur to you this spring.”

“We shall be the losers,” continued Sir Thomas. “His going, though only
eight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our family circle; but
I should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile
himself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have
thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and
claims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and
which no proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund
might, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might
read prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park: he might
ride over every Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited, and go through
divine service; he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every
seventh day, for three or four hours, if that would content him. But it
will not. He knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly
sermon can convey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners,
and prove himself, by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend,
he does very little either for their good or his own.”

Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.

“I repeat again,” added Sir Thomas, “that Thornton Lacey is the only
house in the neighbourhood in which I should _not_ be happy to wait on
Mr. Crawford as occupier.”

Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.

“Sir Thomas,” said Edmund, “undoubtedly understands the duty of a
parish priest. We must hope his son may prove that _he_ knows it too.”

Whatever effect Sir Thomas’s little harangue might really produce on
Mr. Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the others,
two of his most attentive listeners—Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of
whom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so
completely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it
would be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled from
the agreeable fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength
of her brother’s description, no longer able, in the picture she had
been forming of a future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the
clergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and
occasional residence of a man of independent fortune, was considering
Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this, and
suffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his
character and manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself
by a single attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour. It was
time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad to
find it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her
spirits by a change of place and neighbour.

The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the fire,
and waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most
detached. They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table,
talking very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of
the rest began to think of them. Henry Crawford’s chair was the first
to be given a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing
them for a few minutes; himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir
Thomas, who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.

“This is the assembly night,” said William. “If I were at Portsmouth I
should be at it, perhaps.”

“But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?”

“No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth and of
dancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not know that there would
be any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get a partner.
The Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has not a
commission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. One _is_
nothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing
fine girls, but they will hardly speak to _me_, because Lucy is courted
by a lieutenant.”

“Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William” (her own cheeks in a
glow of indignation as she spoke). “It is not worth minding. It is no
reflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have
all experienced, more or less, in their time. You must think of that,
you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which
fall to every sailor’s share, like bad weather and hard living, only
with this advantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will
come a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure. When you
are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant, how
little you will care for any nonsense of this kind.”

“I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody gets
made but me.”

“Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. My uncle
says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his power to get
you made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it is.”

She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than she
had any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something
else.

“Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?”

“Yes, very; only I am soon tired.”

“I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you
never any balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance, and I’d
dance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,
and I should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about
together many a time, did not we? when the hand-organ was in the
street? I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a
better.” And turning to his uncle, who was now close to them, “Is not
Fanny a very good dancer, sir?”

Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which
way to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave
reproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must be
coming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the
contrary, it was no worse than, “I am sorry to say that I am unable to
answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a
little girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like a
gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an
opportunity of doing ere long.”

“I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price,” said
Henry Crawford, leaning forward, “and will engage to answer every
inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.
But I believe” (seeing Fanny looked distressed) “it must be at some
other time. There is _one_ person in company who does not like to have
Miss Price spoken of.”

True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true that
he would now have answered for her gliding about with quiet, light
elegance, and in admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the
life of him recall what her dancing had been, and rather took it for
granted that she had been present than remembered anything about her.

He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by
no means displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general,
and was so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and
listening to what his nephew could relate of the different modes of
dancing which had fallen within his observation, that he had not heard
his carriage announced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by
the bustle of Mrs. Norris.

“Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not you see
your aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep good old Wilcox
waiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses. My dear
Sir Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come back for
you, and Edmund and William.”

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,
previously communicated to his wife and sister; but _that_ seemed
forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all
herself.

Fanny’s last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl
which Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put round
her shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford’s quicker hand, and she was
obliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.




CHAPTER XXVI


William’s desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary
impression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas
had then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained
steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody
else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the
young people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken
his resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the
next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what
his nephew had said, he added, “I do not like, William, that you should
leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me
pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.
Your cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not
altogether suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I
believe we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would
be more eligible; and if—”

“Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!” interrupted Mrs. Norris, “I knew what was
coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,
or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion
for such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance
at Mansfield. I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace the
ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle,
William, thank your uncle!”

“My daughters,” replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, “have their
pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I
think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all
assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the
absence of some is not to debar the others of amusement.”

Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks,
and her surprise and vexation required some minutes’ silence to be
settled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and
herself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_
must be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared
all thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She should
have to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly
restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join in with the
others, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.

Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak
as much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could
desire. Edmund’s feelings were for the other two. His father had never
conferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no
objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little
trouble; and she assured him “that she was not at all afraid of the
trouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any.”

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would
think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she
would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the
day was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a
very complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen
quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom
he calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the
notice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen
couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to
fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be at
Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his
visit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any
earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the
same, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,
as by far the best day for the purpose.

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed
thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,
and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of
happy cares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost
beyond the happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of
choice and no confidence in her own taste, the “how she should be
dressed” was a point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary
ornament in her possession, a very pretty amber cross which William had
brought her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had
nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it
in that manner once, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst
of all the rich ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies
would appear in? And yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her
a gold chain too, but the purchase had been beyond his means, and
therefore not to wear the cross might be mortifying him. These were
anxious considerations; enough to sober her spirits even under the
prospect of a ball given principally for her gratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit
on her sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra
visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making
up a new dress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran
about; but all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen,
“there was, in fact, no trouble in the business.”

Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being
deeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now at
hand, which were to fix his fate in life—ordination and
matrimony—events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which
would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in
his eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd he
was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation as
himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the
Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the
other half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would be
established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward
those duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he
was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford’s. There were
points on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which
she did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her
affection, so far as to be resolved—almost resolved—on bringing it to a
decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business
before him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he had
many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result. His
conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could
look back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in
disinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times
doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of her
acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided
preference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined
rejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,
demanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side as
conscience must forbid.

The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough
to forego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well
enough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which he
was continually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a
“Yes,” had sometimes its “No.”

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the
“no” and the “yes” had been very recently in alternation. He had seen
her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend’s letter, which
claimed a long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry,
in engaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey
her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey
with an animation which had “no” in every tone. But this had occurred
on the first day of its being settled, within the first hour of the
burst of such enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit
was before her. He had since heard her express herself differently,
with other feelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell
Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with regret; that she began to
believe neither the friends nor the pleasures she was going to were
worth those she left behind; and that though she felt she must go, and
knew she should enjoy herself when once away, she was already looking
forward to being at Mansfield again. Was there not a “yes” in all this?

With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund
could not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the
rest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of
strong interest. Independent of his two cousins’ enjoyment in it, the
evening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed meeting
of the two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of
receiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford’s attachment; but the
whirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the
excitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for
the two first dances was all the command of individual happiness which
he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball which he
could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the
subject, from morning till night.

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still
unable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to
seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and
her sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her
blameless; and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she
had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the
Parsonage without much fear of wanting an opportunity for private
discussion; and the privacy of such a discussion was a most important
part of it to Fanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own
solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting
out to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though
obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she
explained her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so
kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well
without doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the
application, and after a moment’s thought, urged Fanny’s returning with
her in a much more cordial manner than before, and proposed their going
up into her room, where they might have a comfortable coze, without
disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room.
It was just the plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude
on her side for such ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors,
and upstairs, and were soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss
Crawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment and
taste, made everything easy by her suggestions, and tried to make
everything agreeable by her encouragement. The dress being settled in
all its grander parts—“But what shall you have by way of necklace?”
said Miss Crawford. “Shall not you wear your brother’s cross?” And as
she spoke she was undoing a small parcel, which Fanny had observed in
her hand when they met. Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on
this point: she did not know how either to wear the cross, or to
refrain from wearing it. She was answered by having a small trinket-box
placed before her, and being requested to chuse from among several gold
chains and necklaces. Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford
was provided, and such the object of her intended visit: and in the
kindest manner she now urged Fanny’s taking one for the cross and to
keep for her sake, saying everything she could think of to obviate the
scruples which were making Fanny start back at first with a look of
horror at the proposal.

“You see what a collection I have,” said she; “more by half than I ever
use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old
necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me.”

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable.
But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much
affectionate earnestness through all the heads of William and the
cross, and the ball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny
found herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride
or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest
reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She
looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and
was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one
necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was
of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a
longer and a plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped,
in fixing on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to
keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to
complete the gift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see
how well it looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its
becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples, was
exceedingly pleased with an acquisition so very apropos. She would
rather, perhaps, have been obliged to some other person. But this was
an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her wants with a
kindness which proved her a real friend. “When I wear this necklace I
shall always think of you,” said she, “and feel how very kind you
were.”

“You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,”
replied Miss Crawford. “You must think of Henry, for it was his choice
in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over
to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be a
family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without
bringing the brother too.”

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the
present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person, of
a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and
embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the
necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take
another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a
prettier consciousness. “My dear child,” said she, laughing, “what are
you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and
fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be
too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which
his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a
throat in the world? or perhaps”—looking archly—“you suspect a
confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his
knowledge and at his desire?”

With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.

“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all
believing her, “to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as
unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the
necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother’s
need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure
you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He is always
giving me something or other. I have such innumerable presents from him
that it is quite impossible for me to value or for him to remember
half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six
times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though you would
be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have
happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would
rather part with and see in your possession than any other. Say no more
against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many
words.”

Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less
happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression
in Miss Crawford’s eyes which she could not be satisfied with.

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford’s change of
manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was
gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to
her cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity
as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in
this necklace—she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss
Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a
friend.

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she
had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked
home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her
treading that path before.




CHAPTER XXVII


On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this
unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some
favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures;
but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin
Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred
before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.

“Fanny,” said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting
her with something in his hand, “I beg your pardon for being here. I
came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your
coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You
will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my
business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little
trifle—a chain for William’s cross. You ought to have had it a week
ago, but there has been a delay from my brother’s not being in town by
several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received
it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I
endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate,
I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really
is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends.”

And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a
thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but
quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, “Oh! cousin, stop
a moment, pray stop!”

He turned back.

“I cannot attempt to thank you,” she continued, in a very agitated
manner; “thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can
possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is
beyond—”

“If that is all you have to say, Fanny” smiling and turning away again.

“No, no, it is not. I want to consult you.”

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into
her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers’
packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not
help bursting forth again, “Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the
very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I
have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They
must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable
moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is.”

“My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most
happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for
to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I
have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to
yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so
unalloyed. It is without a drawback.”

Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour
without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment,
obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,
“But what is it that you want to consult me about?”

It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to
return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the
history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over;
for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what
Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct
between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one
pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was
some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer
to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection,
uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he
did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she
wished.

“Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be
mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant
sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have
given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a
friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so
deserving of?”

“If it had been given to me in the first instance,” said Fanny, “I
should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother’s
present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with
it, when it is not wanted?”

“She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its
having been originally her brother’s gift makes no difference; for as
she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that
account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is
handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom.”

“No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for my
purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William’s cross
beyond all comparison better than the necklace.”

“For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am
sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give
pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford’s
attentions to you have been—not more than you were justly entitled to—I
am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been
invariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the
_air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_,
is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged
to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with
any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my
advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose
intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose
characters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity and
natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting
principally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect
friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise,” he
repeated, his voice sinking a little, “between the two dearest objects
I have on earth.”

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as
she could. She was one of his two dearest—that must support her. But
the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before,
and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was
a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were
decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every
long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and
again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her
any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would
be—oh, how different would it be—how far more tolerable! But he was
deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were
what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed
many tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;
and the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the
influence of fervent prayers for his happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome
all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her
affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment,
would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to
satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be
justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be
nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did
such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden?
It ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She
would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of
Miss Crawford’s character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him
by a sound intellect and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her
duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her
not be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on
the side of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which
Edmund had begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes,
and reading with the tenderest emotion these words, “My very dear
Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept” locked it up with the
chain, as the dearest part of the gift. It was the only thing
approaching to a letter which she had ever received from him; she might
never receive another; it was impossible that she ever should receive
another so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style. Two
lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most
distinguished author—never more completely blessed the researches of
the fondest biographer. The enthusiasm of a woman’s love is even beyond
the biographer’s. To her, the handwriting itself, independent of
anything it may convey, is a blessedness. Never were such characters
cut by any other human being as Edmund’s commonest handwriting gave!
This specimen, written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there
was a felicity in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement
of “My very dear Fanny,” which she could have looked at for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy
mixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down and
resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the
usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with more
kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often
volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought
from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged
to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying
to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could make
up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been
proposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant
to be in town by his uncle’s accustomary late dinner-hour, and William
was invited to dine with him at the Admiral’s. The proposal was a very
pleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling
post with four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and,
in likening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once
everything in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination
could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly
pleased; for the original plan was that William should go up by the
mail from Northampton the following night, which would not have allowed
him an hour’s rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and
though this offer of Mr. Crawford’s would rob her of many hours of his
company, she was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of
such a journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it
for another reason. His nephew’s introduction to Admiral Crawford might
be of service. The Admiral, he believed, had interest. Upon the whole,
it was a very joyous note. Fanny’s spirits lived on it half the
morning, deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer being
himself to go away.

As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears
to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had,
or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking
forward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under
circumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar
gratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known only
by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first
appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could
be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to
the trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in what light this ball
was, in general, considered respecting her, it would very much have
lessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing
wrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation or any
extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half the
evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr.
Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away from
her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to
comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the
best of her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of
a long morning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often
under the influence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to
make this last day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting;
Edmund, she had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and
left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because
the housekeeper would have her own way with the supper, and whom _she_
could not avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at
last to think everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent
off with a parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own
room, and felt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no
share in it.

As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been
about the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and found
Edmund in the East room. “Suppose I were to find him there again
to-day!” said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.

“Fanny,” said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up,
she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself,
standing at the head of a different staircase. He came towards her.
“You look tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far.”

“No, I have not been out at all.”

“Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had
better have gone out.”

Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and
though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had
soon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits:
something unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded
upstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.

“I come from Dr. Grant’s,” said Edmund presently. “You may guess my
errand there, Fanny.” And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could
think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. “I
wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances,” was the
explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling
her, as she found she was expected to speak, to utter something like an
inquiry as to the result.

“Yes,” he answered, “she is engaged to me; but” (with a smile that did
not sit easy) “she says it is to be the last time that she ever will
dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is
not serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with
a clergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could
wish there had been no ball just at—I mean not this very week, this
very day; to-morrow I leave home.”

Fanny struggled for speech, and said, “I am very sorry that anything
has occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My
uncle meant it so.”

“Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right.
I am only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the
ball as ill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny,” stopping her, by
taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously, “you know what all
this means. You see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I
could tell you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little.
You are a kind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this
morning, and cannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be
as sweet and faultless as your own, but the influence of her former
companions makes her seem—gives to her conversation, to her professed
opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but
she speaks it, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be
playfulness, it grieves me to the soul.”

“The effect of education,” said Fanny gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it. “Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have
injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does
appear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted.”

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,
after a moment’s consideration, said, “If you only want me as a
listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified
for an adviser. Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent.”

“You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need
not be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it
is the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few,
I imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their
conscience. I only want to talk to you.”

“One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to
me. Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for.
The time may come—”

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

“Dearest Fanny!” cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with
almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford’s, “you are all
considerate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never
come. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it
most improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should,
there will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need
be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if
they are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her
character the more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You
are the only being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said;
but you have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness,
Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked
over her little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up
every serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if,
whatever befell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without
the sincerest gratitude.”

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said
enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,
and with a brighter look, she answered, “Yes, cousin, I am convinced
that _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Do
not check yourself. Tell me whatever you like.”

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid
prevented any farther conversation. For Fanny’s present comfort it was
concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk
another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
away all Miss Crawford’s faults and his own despondence. But as it was,
they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with some
very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for
hours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford’s note to William had worn
away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been no
comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling.
William’s good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of
greater value than at first. The ball, too—such an evening of pleasure
before her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it
with much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:
she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces
again, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given
her by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the
cross. She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too
large for the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with
delightful feelings, joined the chain and the cross—those memorials of
the two most beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for
each other by everything real and imaginary—and put them round her
neck, and seen and felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she
was able, without an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford’s
necklace too. She acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a
claim; and when it was no longer to encroach on, to interfere with the
stronger claims, the truer kindness of another, she could do her
justice even with pleasure to herself. The necklace really looked very
well; and Fanny left her room at last, comfortably satisfied with
herself and all about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual
degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that
Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the
upper housemaid’s, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own
maid to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman
had just reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room
completely dressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt
her aunt’s attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman
could do themselves.




CHAPTER XXVIII


Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went
down. To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with
pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in
remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all
that he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her
leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with
very decided praise.

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “she looks very well. I sent Chapman to her.”

“Look well! Oh, yes!” cried Mrs. Norris, “she has good reason to look
well with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she has
been, with all the benefit of her cousins’ manners before her. Only
think, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have
been the means of giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice
of is your own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth
married. What would she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?”

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of
the two young men assured him that the subject might be gently touched
again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she
was approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still
better. From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made
still happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who
was holding open the door, said, as she passed him, “You must dance
with me, Fanny; you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,
except the first.” She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly
ever been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life.
Her cousins’ former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer
surprising to her; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was
actually practising her steps about the drawing-room as long as she
could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely
taken up at first in fresh arranging and injuring the noble fire which
the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any
other circumstances, but Fanny’s happiness still prevailed. It was but
to think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness
of Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation
of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed
diffused, and they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every
moment had its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a
struggle in Edmund’s cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the
effort so successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to
assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of so
many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and
formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir
Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself
occasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced
here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to
curtsey, and speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never
summoned to it without looking at William, as he walked about at his
ease in the background of the scene, and longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The
stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and
more diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody grew
comfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils
of civility, would have been again most happy, could she have kept her
eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. _She_ looked all
loveliness—and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings were
brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her
thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her almost
instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was
very much _à la mortal_, finely chequered. To be secure of a partner at
first was a most essential good—for the moment of beginning was now
growing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims as
to think that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the
last to be sought after, and should have received a partner only
through a series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would
have been terrible; but at the same time there was a pointedness in his
manner of asking her which she did not like, and she saw his eye
glancing for a moment at her necklace, with a smile—she thought there
was a smile—which made her blush and feel wretched. And though there
was no second glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to
be only quietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her
embarrassment, heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it,
and had no composure till he turned away to some one else. Then she
could gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a
partner, a voluntary partner, secured against the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself for
the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were
immediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother’s had been,
and who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious to
get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second
necklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one
thing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could
yet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, “Did he? Did
Edmund? That was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I
honour him beyond expression.” And she looked around as if longing to
tell him so. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies out of
the room; and Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm
of each, they followed with the rest.

Fanny’s heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of
Miss Crawford’s feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins were
playing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on
anything serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how
everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;
and the “Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,” was exactly what he had intended
to hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,
saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the
way and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before.
Whenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as
a matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the
impression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary,
she could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,
an entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir
Thomas’s was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her
horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in the
face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain,
however: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too
serious, and said too decidedly, “It must be so, my dear,” for her to
hazard another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by
Mr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined by
the rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young
women! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her
cousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most
unfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take
their own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which
would have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard
them wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And to
have them away when it was given—and for _her_ to be opening the
ball—and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy her that
distinction _now_; but when she looked back to the state of things in
the autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once dancing
in that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she
could understand herself.

The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the
first dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried
to impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to
have any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at.
Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were
not as good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not
disposed to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir
Thomas’s niece, and she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It
was enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching
her progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his
niece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris
seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with
himself for having supplied everything else: education and manners she
owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas’s thoughts as he stood, and
having, in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing
desire of recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping
aside to say something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he
received it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and
politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing
to greater advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards,
when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she
began to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price’s looks.

“Yes, she does look very well,” was Lady Bertram’s placid reply.
“Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her.” Not but that she
was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more
struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could
not get it out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_ by
commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered—“Ah!
ma’am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!” and
Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had
time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making up
card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the
chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions to
please. She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter, and
filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,
misinterpreting Fanny’s blushes, still thought she must be doing so
when she went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a
significant look, “Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to
town to-morrow? He says he has business there, but will not tell me
what. The first time he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what
we all come to. All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply
to you for information. Pray, what is Henry going for?”

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.

“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford, laughing, “I must suppose it to be
purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of
you by the way.”

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss
Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious, or
thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of
pleasure in Henry’s attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in
the course of the evening; but Henry’s attentions had very little to do
with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so
very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his
previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for
the sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to
be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she
could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy
or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William,
he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart which
did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her
satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how
perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could
walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy
in knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances
with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the
evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite
engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even
when they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side,
or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.
His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend
with whom it could find repose. “I am worn out with civility,” said he.
“I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say.
But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be
talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.” Fanny would hardly even
speak her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure,
from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was
peculiarly to be respected, and they went down their two dances
together with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on
that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been
in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her
gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort;
and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her again,
she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the
profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had
talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;
and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to
refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably
satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet
some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he
did suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength
for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her
walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with
her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely.
From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

“Poor Fanny!” cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and
working away his partner’s fan as if for life, “how soon she is knocked
up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these
two hours. How can you be tired so soon?”

“So soon! my good friend,” said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with
all necessary caution; “it is three o’clock, and your sister is not
used to these sort of hours.”

“Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep
as long as you can, and never mind me.”

“Oh! William.”

“What! Did she think of being up before you set off?”

“Oh! yes, sir,” cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer
her uncle; “I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last
time, you know; the last morning.”

“You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past
nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?”

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for
denial; and it ended in a gracious “Well, well!” which was permission.

“Yes, half-past nine,” said Crawford to William as the latter was
leaving them, “and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind
sister to get up for _me_.” And in a lower tone to Fanny, “I shall have
only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of
time and his own very different to-morrow.”

After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the
early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should
himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was
accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to
himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded.
Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of
what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had
just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last
morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her
wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On
the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted,
or to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that
she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point
so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her
inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. “Advise” was his
word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to
rise, and, with Mr. Crawford’s very cordial adieus, pass quietly away;
stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, “one
moment and no more,” to view the happy scene, and take a last look at
the five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and
then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the
ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,
sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite
of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking
merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been
sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife
by shewing her persuadableness.




CHAPTER XXIX


The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss
was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been
very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the
breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy
change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace,
conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might
exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones
and mustard in William’s plate might but divide her feelings with the
broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford’s. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as
her uncle intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other.
William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit
in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.

Fanny’s disposition was such that she could never even think of her
aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,
without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her
when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit
her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was
due to him for a whole fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund
bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,
and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but
remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt
Bertram—she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so
little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was
heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody’s dress or
anybody’s place at supper but her own. “She could not recollect what it
was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was
that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether
Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he
said he was the finest young man in the room—somebody had whispered
something to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be.”
And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications: the
rest was only a languid “Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he? I did
not see _that_; I should not know one from the other.” This was very
bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris’s sharp answers would have
been; but she being gone home with all the supernumerary jellies to
nurse a sick maid, there was peace and good-humour in their little
party, though it could not boast much beside.

The evening was heavy like the day. “I cannot think what is the matter
with me,” said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. “I feel
quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must
do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel
so very stupid.”

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till
bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard
in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the
game—“And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You
are to deal, ma’am; shall I deal for you?” Fanny thought and thought
again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room,
and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles,
bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out
of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but
solitude.

A good night’s rest improved her spirits. She could think of William
the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an
opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss
Crawford, in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of
imagination, and all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential
to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind
without much effort into its everyday state, and easily conform to the
tranquillity of the present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a
whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and
cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.
But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;
and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her
uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,
without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

“We miss our two young men,” was Sir Thomas’s observation on both the
first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after
dinner; and in consideration of Fanny’s swimming eyes, nothing more was
said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the
second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and
his promotion hoped for. “And there is no reason to suppose,” added Sir
Thomas, “but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to
Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter
of his belonging to us, as he has done.”

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “but I wish he was not going away. They are
all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home.”

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for
permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best
for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,
though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was
lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia’s return, which
would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good
sense followed on Sir Thomas’s side, tending to reconcile his wife to
the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel
was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother
_must_ feel in promoting her children’s enjoyment was attributed to her
nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm “Yes”; and at the end
of a quarter of an hour’s silent consideration spontaneously observed,
“Sir Thomas, I have been thinking—and I am very glad we took Fanny as
we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it.”

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, “Very true.
We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her
face, she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to
_her_, she is now quite as necessary to _us_.”

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram presently; “and it is a comfort to think that
we shall always have _her_.”

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely
replied, “She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other
home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows
here.”

“And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite
her? Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but
she would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is
better off here; and besides, I cannot do without her.”

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in
Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young
lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings.
What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation
to Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one
so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more
might be imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of
interest they were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny’s mind,
Edmund’s absence was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief.
To Mary it was every way painful. She felt the want of his society
every day, almost every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive
anything but irritation from considering the object for which he went.
He could not have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence
than this week’s absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her
brother’s going away, of William Price’s going too, and completing the
sort of general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She
felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors
by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope
for. Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and
acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they
had hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of
him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and
longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His
absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an
absence—he should not have left home for a week, when her own departure
from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. 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.

Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had
still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;
when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight
communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned
that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised
to remain some days longer with his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before—if she had been sorry for
what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him—she now felt and
feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one
disagreeable emotion entirely new to her—jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen
had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his
staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was
to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry
returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she
should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary
for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not
live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way to
the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed
unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in
addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.

The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,
and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But at
last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss
Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could—“And
how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund’s staying away so long? Being the
only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.
You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?”

“I do not know,” said Fanny hesitatingly. “Yes; I had not particularly
expected it.”

“Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general
way all young men do.”

“He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before.”

“He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very—a very pleasing
young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not
seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the
case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there
will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen
him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes;
I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss
Price, in our language—a something between compliments and—and love—to
suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So many
months’ acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his
letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is doing?
Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?”

“I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe
it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I
heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he
had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am
not quite sure which.”

“Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to
Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was
concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you,
there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls
and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and
everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?”

“Three grown up.”

“Are they musical?”

“I do not at all know. I never heard.”

“That is the first question, you know,” said Miss Crawford, trying to
appear gay and unconcerned, “which every woman who plays herself is
sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions
about any young ladies—about any three sisters just grown up; for one
knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished
and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family;
it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp;
and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better
for not being taught; or something like it.”

“I know nothing of the Miss Owens,” said Fanny calmly.

“You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone
express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one
has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find
Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine
and myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time
draws near. She does not like my going.”

Fanny felt obliged to speak. “You cannot doubt your being missed by
many,” said she. “You will be very much missed.”

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,
and then laughingly said, “Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed
when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I
am not fishing; don’t compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear.
I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any
doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region.”

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was
disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her
power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded
again.

“The Miss Owens,” said she, soon afterwards; “suppose you were to have
one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like
it? Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it.
And they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty
establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is
everybody’s duty to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas
Bertram’s son is somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their
father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman, and they are
all clergymen together. He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs
to them. You don’t speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don’t speak. But
honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?”

“No,” said Fanny stoutly, “I do not expect it at all.”

“Not at all!” cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. “I wonder at that. But
I dare say you know exactly—I always imagine you are—perhaps you do not
think him likely to marry at all—or not at present.”

“No, I do not,” said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the
belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from
the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, “He is best off as
he is,” and turned the subject.




CHAPTER XXX


Miss Crawford’s uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and
she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another
week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from
London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she
had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what
he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might
have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke—suspected only of
concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the
next day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just
go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but
he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting
for him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most
impatiently in the sweep, and cried out, “My dear Henry, where can you
have been all this time?” he had only to say that he had been sitting
with Lady Bertram and Fanny.

“Sitting with them an hour and a half!” exclaimed Mary.

But this was only the beginning of her surprise.

“Yes, Mary,” said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along the
sweep as if not knowing where he was: “I could not get away sooner;
Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is
entirely made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am
quite determined to marry Fanny Price.”

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his
consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views
had never entered his sister’s imagination; and she looked so truly the
astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,
and more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination
once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the
surprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with
the Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother’s
marrying a little beneath him.

“Yes, Mary,” was Henry’s concluding assurance. “I am fairly caught. You
know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them. I
have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her
affections; but my own are entirely fixed.”

“Lucky, lucky girl!” cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; “what a
match for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but
my _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your
choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish
and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and
devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs.
Norris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight of
all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it! How
_they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever.
When did you begin to think seriously about her?”

Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though
nothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. “How the
pleasing plague had stolen on him” he could not say; and before he had
expressed the same sentiment with a little variation of words three
times over, his sister eagerly interrupted him with, “Ah, my dear
Henry, and this is what took you to London! This was your business! You
chose to consult the Admiral before you made up your mind.”

But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him
on any matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it
never pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.

“When Fanny is known to him,” continued Henry, “he will doat on her.
She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as
the Admiral, for she is exactly such a woman as he thinks does not
exist in the world. She is the very impossibility he would describe, if
indeed he has now delicacy of language enough to embody his own ideas.
But till it is absolutely settled—settled beyond all interference, he
shall know nothing of the matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You
have not discovered my business yet.”

“Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am
in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That
Mansfield should have done so much for—that _you_ should have found
your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have
chosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not
want for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good.
The Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country.
She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world.
But go on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her
own happiness?”

“No.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“For—for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her
cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain.”

“Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing—supposing her not to
love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)—you would
be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure
her all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would
marry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world
capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but
ask her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse.”

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell
as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply
interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to
relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny’s charms.
Fanny’s beauty of face and figure, Fanny’s graces of manner and
goodness of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty,
and sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that
sweetness which makes so essential a part of every woman’s worth in the
judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can
never believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and
to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,
excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually
exercised her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently
strong. To see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove
that the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be
more encouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her
understanding was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her
manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was
this all. Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of
good principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to
serious reflection to know them by their proper name; but when he
talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity of conduct, such
a high notion of honour, and such an observance of decorum as might
warrant any man in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity,
he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her being well
principled and religious.

“I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,” said he; “and _that_
is what I want.”

Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of
Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.

“The more I think of it,” she cried, “the more am I convinced that you
are doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny
Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is
the very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace
turns out a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it.”

“It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know
her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first
put it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she
has ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take
her from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in
this neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years’
lease of Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I
could name three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank
me.”

“Ha!” cried Mary; “settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then
we shall be all together.”

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;
but there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the
supposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her
in the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in
her.

“You must give us more than half your time,” said he. “I cannot admit
Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall
both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister!”

Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was
now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister
many months longer.

“You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?”

“Yes.”

“That’s right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer
with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting
away from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of
his, before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned
to sit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing of life! _You_
are not sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you;
but, in my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To
have seen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture,
would have broken my heart.”

“Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his
faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to
me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You
must not prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one
another.”

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two
persons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:
time would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection
on the Admiral. “Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I
could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which
my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the
marriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_
would be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to love,
she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a
gentleman.”

The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny
Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the
groundwork of his eloquent answer.

“Had you seen her this morning, Mary,” he continued, “attending with
such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt’s
stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully
heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to
finish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that
stupid woman’s service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,
so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a
moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,
and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and
then shook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at
intervals to _me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what
I said. Had you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the
possibility of her power over my heart ever ceasing.”

“My dearest Henry,” cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his
face, “how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me.
But what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?”

“I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see
what sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of
sense. I wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see
their cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be
heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness. They
will be angry,” he added, after a moment’s silence, and in a cooler
tone; “Mrs. Rushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to
her; that is, like other bitter pills, it will have two moments’ ill
flavour, and then be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a
coxcomb as to suppose her feelings more lasting than other women’s,
though _I_ was the object of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a
difference indeed: a daily, hourly difference, in the behaviour of
every being who approaches her; and it will be the completion of my
happiness to know that I am the doer of it, that I am the person to
give the consequence so justly her due. Now she is dependent, helpless,
friendless, neglected, forgotten.”

“Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or
forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her.”

“Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and so
is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,
long-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together
do, what _do_ they do for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity
in the world, to what I _shall_ do?”




CHAPTER XXXI


Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an
earlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were
together in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram
was on the very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at
the door, and not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain,
she still went on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about
being waited for, and a “Let Sir Thomas know” to the servant.

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without
losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some
letters, said, with a most animated look, “I must acknowledge myself
infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity of
seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any
idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could
hardly have borne that any one in the house should share with you in
the first knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother
is a lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you
on your brother’s promotion. Here are the letters which announce it,
this moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them.”

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the
expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of
her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She
took the letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to
inform his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the
object he had undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing
two more, one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom
the Admiral had set to work in the business, the other from that friend
to himself, by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great
happiness of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir
Charles was much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his
regard for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William
Price’s commission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made
out was spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.

While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from
one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus
continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the
event—

“I will not talk of my own happiness,” said he, “great as it is, for I
think only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I
have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to
have known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however. The
post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment’s
delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,
I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly
disappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was
kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear to
me than such an object would have detained me half the time from
Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the
warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were
difficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of
another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and
knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,
trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by
such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in the
world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your
brother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday
to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his
praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise
of a friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I
could not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be
followed by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most
voluntarily bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed
together.”

“Has this been all _your_ doing, then?” cried Fanny. “Good heaven! how
very, very kind! Have you really—was it by _your_ desire? I beg your
pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I
am stupefied.”

Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an
earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His
last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that
of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the
Admiral to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on.
This had been his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he
had not breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the
issue, he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but
this had been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his
solicitude had been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding
in the _deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_
_wishes_ _more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have
remained insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her
heart was so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could
listen but imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying
only when he paused, “How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are
infinitely obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!” She jumped up and
moved in haste towards the door, crying out, “I will go to my uncle. My
uncle ought to know it as soon as possible.” But this could not be
suffered. The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient.
He was after her immediately. “She must not go, she must allow him five
minutes longer,” and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and
was in the middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected
for what she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and
found herself expected to believe that she had created sensations which
his heart had never known before, and that everything he had done for
William was to be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled
attachment to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments
unable to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling
and gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not
but feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in
such a way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and
entirely of a piece with what she had seen before; and she would not
allow herself to shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had
been conferring an obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part
could make a trifle to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy
and gratitude on William’s behalf, she could not be severely resentful
of anything that injured only herself; and after having twice drawn
back her hand, and twice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she
got up, and said only, with much agitation, “Don’t, Mr. Crawford, pray
don’t! I beg you would not. This is a sort of talking which is very
unpleasant to me. I must go away. I cannot bear it.” But he was still
talking on, describing his affection, soliciting a return, and,
finally, in words so plain as to bear but one meaning even to her,
offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance. It was
so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased; and
though still not knowing how to suppose him serious, she could hardly
stand. He pressed for an answer.

“No, no, no!” she cried, hiding her face. “This is all nonsense. Do not
distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes
me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I
cannot bear, I must not listen to such—No, no, don’t think of me. But
you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing.”

She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard
speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was
no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at
a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured
mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel
necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle
was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the
utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas’s politeness or
apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful
intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,
miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond
belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits
that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously
made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted—she knew
not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have
him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and
offers, if they meant but to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and
without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the
rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must
have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully
she could esteem him for his friendship to William!

She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the
great staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford’s
having left the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was
eager to go down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of
his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or
his conjectures as to what would now be William’s destination. Sir
Thomas was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and
communicative; and she had so comfortable a talk with him about William
as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she
found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and
dine there that very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though
he might think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite
distressing to her to see him again so soon.

She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour
approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible
for her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor
entered the room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any
concurrence of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on
the first day of hearing of William’s promotion.

Mr. Crawford was not only in the room—he was soon close to her. He had
a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but
there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her
note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read
it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to
dine there, screened her a little from view.

“MY DEAR FANNY,—for so I may now always call you, to the infinite
relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at
least the last six weeks—I cannot let my brother go without sending you
a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful
consent and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can
be no difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance
of my consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your
sweetest smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier
than he goes.


Yours affectionately,
M. C.”


These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read in
too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss
Crawford’s meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on
her brother’s attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.
She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness
in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation
every way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and
he spoke to her much too often; and she was afraid there was a
something in his voice and manner in addressing her very different from
what they were when he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day’s
dinner was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir
Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite,
she was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford’s
interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn her
eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were
immediately directed towards her.

She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William
was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,
and there was pain in the connexion.

She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in
despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the
drawing-room, and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts
finished the subject of William’s appointment in their own style.

Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to Sir
Thomas as with any part of it. “_Now_ William would be able to keep
himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was
unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some
difference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given
William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in
her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give
him something rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_
limited means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his
cabin. She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many
things to buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to
put him in the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very
glad she had contributed her mite towards it.”

“I am glad you gave him something considerable,” said Lady Bertram,
with most unsuspicious calmness, “for _I_ gave him only £10.”

“Indeed!” cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. “Upon my word, he must have
gone off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey
to London either!”

“Sir Thomas told me £10 would be enough.”

Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,
began to take the matter in another point.

“It is amazing,” said she, “how much young people cost their friends,
what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They
little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their
uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are
my sister Price’s children; take them all together, I dare say nobody
would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say
nothing of what _I_ do for them.”

“Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help it;
and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,
William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I
shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I
wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I
will have two shawls, Fanny.”

Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very
earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at.
There was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his
words and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against
it; all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits.
How could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen
so many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many,
infinitely her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious
impressions, even where pains had been taken to please him; who thought
so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was
everything to everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him?
And farther, how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her
high and worldly notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of
a serious nature in such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in
either. Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be
possible rather than serious attachment, or serious approbation of it
toward her. She had quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas
and Mr. Crawford joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the
conviction quite so absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for
once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to
class among the common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would
have said that it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she
still tried to believe it no more than what he might often have
expressed towards her cousins and fifty other women.

She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She
fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever
Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and
she carefully refused him every opportunity.

At last—it seemed an at last to Fanny’s nervousness, though not
remarkably late—he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the
sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,
“Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be
disappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it
be only a line.”

“Oh yes! certainly,” cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of
embarrassment and of wanting to get away—“I will write directly.”

She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of
writing for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what
in the world to say. She had read Miss Crawford’s note only once, and
how to reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most
distressing. Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there
been time for scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them
in abundance: but something must be instantly written; and with only
one decided feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything
really intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and
hand—

“I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind
congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest
of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of
the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther
notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his
manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave
differently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour
of you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour
of your note,


I remain, dear Miss Crawford,
&c., &c.”


The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for
she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was
coming towards her.

“You cannot think I mean to hurry you,” said he, in an undervoice,
perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note,
“you cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I
entreat.”

“Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a
moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to
give _that_ to Miss Crawford.”

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with
averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had
nothing to do but to go in good earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of
pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die
with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William’s
advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had
no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that the
language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no
arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being
neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford’s attentions.




CHAPTER XXXII


Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next
morning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was not less
sanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before. If Mr.
Crawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired:
go and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned to
Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done already she could
not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had
hoped, in the course of his yesterday’s visit, to hear the day named;
but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere
long.

Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,
she could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she
accidentally did, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early
as the day before. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but
she must avoid seeing him if possible; and being then on her way
upstairs, she resolved there to remain, during the whole of his visit,
unless actually sent for; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house,
there seemed little danger of her being wanted.

She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling,
and fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached
the East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able
to employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and
would go without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,
when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a
heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her
uncle’s; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as
often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to
speak to her, whatever might be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas
who opened the door and asked if she were there, and if he might come
in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that room seemed all
renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in
French and English.

She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying
to appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the
deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered,
said, with much surprise, “Why have you no fire to-day?”

There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She
hesitated.

“I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year.”

“But you have a fire in general?”

“No, sir.”

“How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you
had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable. In
your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great
misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to
sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong.
You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this.”

Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she
could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying
something in which the words “my aunt Norris” were distinguishable.

“I understand,” cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting
to hear more: “I understand. Your aunt Norris has always been an
advocate, and very judiciously, for young people’s being brought up
without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in
everything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will
influence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another
account, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments
have always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have
been, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case. I am
aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced
distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will
ever harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding
which will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging
partially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you
will consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that
_they_ were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you
for that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot. Though
their caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant;
and of this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will
be doubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been
imposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by
failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and
attention that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I
must speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long.”

Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment’s
pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.

“You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. I
had not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford
was shewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture.”

Fanny’s colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that
she was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking up
quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther
pause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford’s visit.

Mr. Crawford’s business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny,
make decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle,
who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all
so well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas,
feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been
very much to the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars
of their conversation; and little aware of what was passing in his
niece’s mind, conceived that by such details he must be gratifying her
far more than himself. He talked, therefore, for several minutes
without Fanny’s daring to interrupt him. She had hardly even attained
the wish to do it. Her mind was in too much confusion. She had changed
her position; and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows,
was listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. For a
moment he ceased, but she had barely become conscious of it, when,
rising from his chair, he said, “And now, Fanny, having performed one
part of my commission, and shewn you everything placed on a basis the
most assured and satisfactory, I may execute the remainder by
prevailing on you to accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot
but presume on having been no unacceptable companion myself, I must
submit to your finding one still better worth listening to. Mr.
Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet in the house. He is in
my room, and hoping to see you there.”

There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which
astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on
hearing her exclaim—“Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to
him. Mr. Crawford ought to know—he must know that: I told him enough
yesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday,
and I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me,
and quite out of my power to return his good opinion.”

“I do not catch your meaning,” said Sir Thomas, sitting down again.
“Out of your power to return his good opinion? What is all this? I know
he spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as
much encouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could
permit herself to give. I was very much pleased with what I collected
to have been your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion
highly to be commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so
properly, and honourably—what are your scruples _now_?”

“You are mistaken, sir,” cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the
moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; “you are quite
mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no
encouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot
recollect my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not
listen to him, that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and
that I begged him never to talk to me in that manner again. I am sure I
said as much as that and more; and I should have said still more, if I
had been quite certain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not
like to be, I could not bear to be, imputing more than might be
intended. I thought it might all pass for nothing with _him_.”

She could say no more; her breath was almost gone.

“Am I to understand,” said Sir Thomas, after a few moments’ silence,
“that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Refuse him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Refuse Mr. Crawford! Upon what plea? For what reason?”

“I—I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him.”

“This is very strange!” said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm
displeasure. “There is something in this which my comprehension does
not reach. Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you,
with everything to recommend him: not merely situation in life,
fortune, and character, but with more than common agreeableness, with
address and conversation pleasing to everybody. And he is not an
acquaintance of to-day; you have now known him some time. His sister,
moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has been doing _that_ for
your brother, which I should suppose would have been almost sufficient
recommendation to you, had there been no other. It is very uncertain
when my interest might have got William on. He has done it already.”

“Yes,” said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame;
and she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture as her
uncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford.

“You must have been aware,” continued Sir Thomas presently, “you must
have been some time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford’s manners
to you. This cannot have taken you by surprise. You must have observed
his attentions; and though you always received them very properly (I
have no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived them to be
unpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not
quite know your own feelings.”

“Oh yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always—what I did not
like.”

Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. “This is beyond me,”
said he. “This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seen
scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections—”

He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a _no_,
though the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That,
however, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence;
and chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, “No, no, I
know _that_ is quite out of the question; quite impossible. Well, there
is nothing more to be said.”

And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His
niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare
herself against farther questioning. She would rather die than own the
truth; and she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond
betraying it.

“Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford’s _choice_ seemed to
justify” said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly, “his
wishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me. I am an
advocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and
would have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon
after four-and-twenty as he can. This is so much my opinion, that I am
sorry to think how little likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr.
Bertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge,
matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more
likely to fix.” Here was a glance at Fanny. “Edmund, I consider, from
his dispositions and habits, as much more likely to marry early than
his brother. _He_, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman he
could love, which, I am convinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right?
Do you agree with me, my dear?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the
score of the cousins. But the removal of his alarm did his niece no
service: as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure
increased; and getting up and walking about the room with a frown,
which Fanny could picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her
eyes, he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, “Have
you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford’s temper?”

“No, sir.”

She longed to add, “But of his principles I have”; but her heart sunk
under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably
non-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on
observations, which, for her cousins’ sake, she could scarcely dare
mention to their father. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria, were so
closely implicated in Mr. Crawford’s misconduct, that she could not
give his character, such as she believed it, without betraying them.
She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so
honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_ on
her side would have been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it
was not.

Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling
wretchedness, and with a good deal of cold sternness, said, “It is of
no use, I perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an end to this
most mortifying conference. Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer
waiting. I will, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my
opinion of your conduct, that you have disappointed every expectation I
had formed, and proved yourself of a character the very reverse of what
I had supposed. For I _had_, Fanny, as I think my behaviour must have
shewn, formed a very favourable opinion of you from the period of my
return to England. I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of
temper, self-conceit, and every tendency to that independence of spirit
which prevails so much in modern days, even in young women, and which
in young women is offensive and disgusting beyond all common offence.
But you have now shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse; that you
can and will decide for yourself, without any consideration or
deference for those who have surely some right to guide you, without
even asking their advice. You have shewn yourself very, very different
from anything that I had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of
your family, of your parents, your brothers and sisters, never seems to
have had a moment’s share in your thoughts on this occasion. How _they_
might be benefited, how _they_ must rejoice in such an establishment
for you, is nothing to _you_. You think only of yourself, and because
you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a young heated fancy
imagines to be necessary for happiness, you resolve to refuse him at
once, without wishing even for a little time to consider of it, a
little more time for cool consideration, and for really examining your
own inclinations; and are, in a wild fit of folly, throwing away from
you such an opportunity of being settled in life, eligibly, honourably,
nobly settled, as will, probably, never occur to you again. Here is a
young man of sense, of character, of temper, of manners, and of
fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and seeking your hand in the most
handsome and disinterested way; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you
may live eighteen years longer in the world without being addressed by
a man of half Mr. Crawford’s estate, or a tenth part of his merits.
Gladly would I have bestowed either of my own daughters on him. Maria
is nobly married; but had Mr. Crawford sought Julia’s hand, I should
have given it to him with superior and more heartfelt satisfaction than
I gave Maria’s to Mr. Rushworth.” After half a moment’s pause: “And I
should have been very much surprised had either of my daughters, on
receiving a proposal of marriage at any time which might carry with it
only _half_ the eligibility of _this_, immediately and peremptorily,
and without paying my opinion or my regard the compliment of any
consultation, put a decided negative on it. I should have been much
surprised and much hurt by such a proceeding. I should have thought it
a gross violation of duty and respect. _You_ are not to be judged by
the same rule. You do not owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if
your heart can acquit you of _ingratitude_—”

He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he
was, he would not press that article farther. Her heart was almost
broke by such a picture of what she appeared to him; by such
accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation!
Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all
this. She had deceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion.
What was to become of her?

“I am very sorry,” said she inarticulately, through her tears, “I am
very sorry indeed.”

“Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to
be long sorry for this day’s transactions.”

“If it were possible for me to do otherwise” said she, with another
strong effort; “but I am so perfectly convinced that I could never make
him happy, and that I should be miserable myself.”

Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of
that great black word _miserable_, which served to introduce it, Sir
Thomas began to think a little relenting, a little change of
inclination, might have something to do with it; and to augur
favourably from the personal entreaty of the young man himself. He knew
her to be very timid, and exceedingly nervous; and thought it not
improbable that her mind might be in such a state as a little time, a
little pressing, a little patience, and a little impatience, a
judicious mixture of all on the lover’s side, might work their usual
effect on. If the gentleman would but persevere, if he had but love
enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began to have hopes; and these
reflections having passed across his mind and cheered it, “Well,” said
he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less anger, “well, child, dry
up your tears. There is no use in these tears; they can do no good. You
must now come downstairs with me. Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting
too long already. You must give him your own answer: we cannot expect
him to be satisfied with less; and you only can explain to him the
grounds of that misconception of your sentiments, which, unfortunately
for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally unequal to it.”

But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going
down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged it
better to indulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered
a small depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece, and
saw the state of feature and complexion which her crying had brought
her into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an
immediate interview. With a few words, therefore, of no particular
meaning, he walked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and
cry over what had passed, with very wretched feelings.

Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was
terrible. But her uncle’s anger gave her the severest pain of all.
Selfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She was miserable
for ever. She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for
her. Her only friend was absent. He might have softened his father; but
all, perhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might
have to endure the reproach again and again; she might hear it, or see
it, or know it to exist for ever in every connexion about her. She
could not but feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he
really loved her, and were unhappy too! It was all wretchedness
together.

In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost ready
to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without
austerity, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was
comfort, too, in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with,
“Mr. Crawford is gone: he has just left me. I need not repeat what has
passed. I do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an
account of what he has felt. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the
most gentlemanlike and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a most
favourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my
representation of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with the
greatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present.”

Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again. “Of course,”
continued her uncle, “it cannot be supposed but that he should request
to speak with you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request too
natural, a claim too just to be denied. But there is no time fixed;
perhaps to-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough. For
the present you have only to tranquillise yourself. Check these tears;
they do but exhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish to
shew me any observance, you will not give way to these emotions, but
endeavour to reason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I advise
you to go out: the air will do you good; go out for an hour on the
gravel; you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better
for air and exercise. And, Fanny” (turning back again for a moment), “I
shall make no mention below of what has passed; I shall not even tell
your aunt Bertram. There is no occasion for spreading the
disappointment; say nothing about it yourself.”

This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of
kindness which Fanny felt at her heart. To be spared from her aunt
Norris’s interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude.
Anything might be bearable rather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr.
Crawford would be less overpowering.

She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his
advice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tears; did
earnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She
wished to prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to
regain his favour; and he had given her another strong motive for
exertion, in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts.
Not to excite suspicion by her look or manner was now an object worth
attaining; and she felt equal to almost anything that might save her
from her aunt Norris.

She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and
going into the East room again, the first thing which caught her eye
was a fire lighted and burning. A fire! it seemed too much; just at
that time to be giving her such an indulgence was exciting even painful
gratitude. She wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of
such a trifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary information
of the housemaid, who came in to attend it, that so it was to be every
day. Sir Thomas had given orders for it.

“I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!” said she,
in soliloquy. “Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!”

She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they
met at dinner. Her uncle’s behaviour to her was then as nearly as
possible what it had been before; she was sure he did not mean there
should be any change, and that it was only her own conscience that
could fancy any; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when
she found how much and how unpleasantly her having only walked out
without her aunt’s knowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason
she had to bless the kindness which saved her from the same spirit of
reproach, exerted on a more momentous subject.

“If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just to go as
far as my house with some orders for Nanny,” said she, “which I have
since, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carry
myself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me
the trouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us know you
were going out. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose,
whether you had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house.”

“I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place,” said Sir
Thomas.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Norris, with a moment’s check, “that was very kind of
you, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house.
Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the
advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her
fault. If she would but have let us know she was going out but there is
a something about Fanny, I have often observed it before—she likes to
go her own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes
her own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a little
spirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I
would advise her to get the better of.”

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be
more unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same
sentiments himself, and he tried to turn the conversation: tried
repeatedly before he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment
enough to perceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he
thought well of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have
his own children’s merits set off by the depreciation of hers. She was
talking _at_ Fanny, and resenting this private walk half through the
dinner.

It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more
composure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she could
have hoped for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted, in the first
place, that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her.
For the purity of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing
to hope, secondly, that her uncle’s displeasure was abating, and would
abate farther as he considered the matter with more impartiality, and
felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how unpardonable, how
hopeless, and how wicked it was to marry without affection.

When the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past,
she could not but flatter herself that the subject would be finally
concluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that everything
would soon be as if no such subject had existed. She would not, could
not believe, that Mr. Crawford’s affection for her could distress him
long; his mind was not of that sort. London would soon bring its cure.
In London he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be
thankful for the right reason in her which had saved him from its evil
consequences.

While Fanny’s mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was,
soon after tea, called out of the room; an occurrence too common to
strike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared
ten minutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said,
“Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma’am, in his own room.” Then it
occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her
mind which drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she
was preparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, “Stay, stay, Fanny!
what are you about? where are you going? don’t be in such a hurry.
Depend upon it, it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me”
(looking at the butler); “but you are so very eager to put yourself
forward. What should Sir Thomas want you for? It is me, Baddeley, you
mean; I am coming this moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir
Thomas wants me, not Miss Price.”

But Baddeley was stout. “No, ma’am, it is Miss Price; I am certain of
its being Miss Price.” And there was a half-smile with the words, which
meant, “I do not think you would answer the purpose at all.”

Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself to work
again; and Fanny, walking off in agitating consciousness, found
herself, as she anticipated, in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.




CHAPTER XXXIII


The conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady had
designed. The gentleman was not so easily satisfied. He had all the
disposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He had vanity,
which strongly inclined him in the first place to think she did love
him, though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly, when
constrained at last to admit that she did know her own present
feelings, convinced him that he should be able in time to make those
feelings what he wished.

He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating
on an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made her
affection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and
determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing
her to love him.

He would not despair: he would not desist. He had every well-grounded
reason for solid attachment; he knew her to have all the worth that
could justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her
conduct at this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and
delicacy of her character (qualities which he believed most rare
indeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his
resolutions. He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to attack. Of
_that_ he had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one who had
never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been
guarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty
had prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still
overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and
the novelty of a situation which her fancy had never taken into
account.

Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should
succeed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself,
must with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and
he had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a
very short time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A
little difficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He
rather derived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too
easily. His situation was new and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to
find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that he
did mean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from her
as she felt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. She told
him that she did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never
should love him; that such a change was quite impossible; that the
subject was most painful to her; that she must entreat him never to
mention it again, to allow her to leave him at once, and let it be
considered as concluded for ever. And when farther pressed, had added,
that in her opinion their dispositions were so totally dissimilar as to
make mutual affection incompatible; and that they were unfitted for
each other by nature, education, and habit. All this she had said, and
with the earnestness of sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he
immediately denied there being anything uncongenial in their
characters, or anything unfriendly in their situations; and positively
declared, that he would still love, and still hope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her
manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it
concealed the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and
softness made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of
self-denial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to
herself as to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as
the clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had
been her abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to, in whom
she could believe no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of
being agreeable, she had barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr.
Crawford who was addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love;
whose feelings were apparently become all that was honourable and
upright, whose views of happiness were all fixed on a marriage of
attachment; who was pouring out his sense of her merits, describing and
describing again his affection, proving as far as words could prove it,
and in the language, tone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he
sought her for her gentleness and her goodness; and to complete the
whole, he was now the Mr. Crawford who had procured William’s
promotion!

Here was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate!
She might have disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in the
grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he
approached her now with rights that demanded different treatment. She
must be courteous, and she must be compassionate. She must have a
sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or her
brother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. The effect of the
whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and words intermingled with
her refusal so expressive of obligation and concern, that to a temper
of vanity and hope like Crawford’s, the truth, or at least the strength
of her indifference, might well be questionable; and he was not so
irrational as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering,
assiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed the interview.

It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no
look of despair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes of his
being less unreasonable than he professed himself.

Now she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so
selfish and ungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard
for others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was
again a something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated
before. How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity
where his own pleasure was concerned—And, alas! how always known no
principle to supply as a duty what the heart was deficient in. Had her
own affections been as free—as perhaps they ought to have been—he never
could have engaged them.

So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing
over that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering
at the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and in a
nervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of
her being never under any circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and
the felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow for
a knowledge of what had passed between the young people. He then saw
Mr. Crawford, and received his account. The first feeling was
disappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an
hour’s entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so
little change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was
speedy comfort in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the
lover; and when seeing such confidence of success in the principal, Sir
Thomas was soon able to depend on it himself.

Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,
that might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford’s steadiness was honoured, and
Fanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable in
the world. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; he
had only to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the frequency
of his visits, at present or in future. In all his niece’s family and
friends, there could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject; the
influence of all who loved her must incline one way.

Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received
with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and
hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther importunity
with his niece, and to shew no open interference. Upon her disposition
he believed kindness might be the best way of working. Entreaty should
be from one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point,
respecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be
their surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly, on this principle,
Sir Thomas took the first opportunity of saying to her, with a mild
gravity, intended to be overcoming, “Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr.
Crawford again, and learn from him exactly how matters stand between
you. He is a most extraordinary young man, and whatever be the event,
you must feel that you have created an attachment of no common
character; though, young as you are, and little acquainted with the
transient, varying, unsteady nature of love, as it generally exists,
you cannot be struck as I am with all that is wonderful in a
perseverance of this sort against discouragement. With him it is
entirely a matter of feeling: he claims no merit in it; perhaps is
entitled to none. Yet, having chosen so well, his constancy has a
respectable stamp. Had his choice been less unexceptionable, I should
have condemned his persevering.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Fanny, “I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should
continue to—I know that it is paying me a very great compliment, and I
feel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I
have told him so, that it never will be in my power—”

“My dear,” interrupted Sir Thomas, “there is no occasion for this. Your
feelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets must be to
you. There is nothing more to be said or done. From this hour the
subject is never to be revived between us. You will have nothing to
fear, or to be agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable of trying
to persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your happiness and
advantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you
but to bear with Mr. Crawford’s endeavours to convince you that they
may not be incompatible with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are
on safe ground. I have engaged for your seeing him whenever he calls,
as you might have done had nothing of this sort occurred. You will see
him with the rest of us, in the same manner, and, as much as you can,
dismissing the recollection of everything unpleasant. He leaves
Northamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot be
often demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear
Fanny, this subject is closed between us.”

The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much
satisfaction. Her uncle’s kind expressions, however, and forbearing
manner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the
truth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at
the line of conduct he pursued. He, who had married a daughter to Mr.
Rushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him.
She must do her duty, and trust that time might make her duty easier
than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford’s attachment
would hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady,
unceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time.
How much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is
another concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady’s
exact estimate of her own perfections.

In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more
obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly for
its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still have
avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally
opposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. He
had no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where he
loved to talk over the future with both his sisters, and it would be
rather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress
of his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessity
of making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business
without delay; though, on Fanny’s account, he almost dreaded the effect
of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself. He
deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was,
by this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those
well-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable
things.

Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest
forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but
did observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was:
bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received
such an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to
Julia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford’s choice; and, independently
of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she
would have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always
trying to depress.

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she
deserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see
her displeasure, and not to hear it.

Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a
prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that
excited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of
fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing
her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been doubting about
before, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel
a sort of credit in calling her niece.

“Well, Fanny,” said she, as soon as they were alone together
afterwards, and she really had known something like impatience to be
alone with her, and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary
animation; “Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this
morning. I must just speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must
_once_, and then I shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece.” And
looking at her complacently, she added, “Humph, we certainly are a
handsome family!”

Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to
assail her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered—

“My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have
done, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me,
should not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that.”

“No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as
this comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were
married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be
aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman’s duty to accept such a very
unexceptionable offer as this.”

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice,
which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight
years and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention
would be. If her aunt’s feelings were against her, nothing could be
hoped from attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite
talkative.

“I will tell you what, Fanny,” said she, “I am sure he fell in love
with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You
did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And
you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent
Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that
evening.” And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon
afterwards added, “And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than
I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a
puppy.”




CHAPTER XXXIV


Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were
awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the
appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through
the village as he rode into it. He had concluded—he had meant them to
be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight
purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with
spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender
associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning on her
brother’s arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably
friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking
of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in
inclination than any distance could express.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for,
had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport
fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather
than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It
was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the
properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful
surprises at hand.

William’s promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of;
and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to
help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and
unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.

After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny’s
history; and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the
present situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.

Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual
in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her;
and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by
Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by
her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she
thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things
afforded, she must have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable
excess.

He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her
that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew
from it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that
interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened
every feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father’s
side of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father’s at
her refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider
him with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to be
rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly
unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more
desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while
honouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present
indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas
could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in
believing, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual
affection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly
fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning
seriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had
not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end.
With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers,
Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion.
Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny’s embarrassment to make him
scrupulously guard against exciting it a second time, by any word, or
look, or movement.

Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund’s return, Sir
Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it
was really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had
then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what
degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her
manners; and it was so little, so very, very little—every chance, every
possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was
not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else—that he was
almost ready to wonder at his friend’s perseverance. Fanny was worth it
all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion
of mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any
woman breathing, without something more to warm his courage than his
eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford
saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his
friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before,
and at, and after dinner.

In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more
promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his
mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if
there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing
their apparently deep tranquillity.

“We have not been so silent all the time,” replied his mother. “Fanny
has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you
coming.” And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the
air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. “She often
reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very
fine speech of that man’s—what’s his name, Fanny?—when we heard your
footsteps.”

Crawford took the volume. “Let me have the pleasure of finishing that
speech to your ladyship,” said he. “I shall find it immediately.” And
by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find
it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram,
who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey,
that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had
Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for
her work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But
taste was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five
minutes: she was forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her
pleasure in good reading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had
been long used: her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well,
but in Mr. Crawford’s reading there was a variety of excellence beyond
what she had ever met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey,
Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the
happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will
on the best scene, or the best speeches of each; and whether it were
dignity, or pride, or tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be
expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His
acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his
reading brought all his acting before her again; nay, perhaps with
greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback
as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss
Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and
gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework,
which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from
her hand while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes
which had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were
turned and fixed on Crawford—fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in
short, till the attraction drew Crawford’s upon her, and the book was
closed, and the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into
herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been
enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially
thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny’s secret feelings too.

“That play must be a favourite with you,” said he; “you read as if you
knew it well.”

“It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour,” replied Crawford;
“but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand
before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I
have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But
Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part
of an Englishman’s constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so
spread abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with
him by instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of
his plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately.”

“No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,” said Edmund,
“from one’s earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted by
everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk
Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but
this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know
him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly
is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday
talent.”

“Sir, you do me honour,” was Crawford’s answer, with a bow of mock
gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant
praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not
be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content
them.

Lady Bertram’s admiration was expressed, and strongly too. “It was
really like being at a play,” said she. “I wish Sir Thomas had been
here.”

Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her
incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her
niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.

“You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford,” said her
ladyship soon afterwards; “and I will tell you what, I think you will
have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean
when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a
theatre at your house in Norfolk.”

“Do you, ma’am?” cried he, with quickness. “No, no, that will never be.
Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!” And
he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant,
“That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham.”

Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to
make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of
the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a
ready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than
not.

The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men
were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the
too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it,
in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet
in some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness
of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the
necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice,
giving instances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes,
the want of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis,
of foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of
early attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great
entertainment.

“Even in my profession,” said Edmund, with a smile, “how little the art
of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and good
delivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however,
than the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but
among those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the
larger number, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading
was reading, and preaching was preaching. It is different now. The
subject is more justly considered. It is felt that distinctness and
energy may have weight in recommending the most solid truths; and
besides, there is more general observation and taste, a more critical
knowledge diffused than formerly; in every congregation there is a
larger proportion who know a little of the matter, and who can judge
and criticise.”

Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination;
and upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from
Crawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made,
though with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without
any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew
to be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and
when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the
properest manner in which particular passages in the service should be
delivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before,
and thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased. This
would be the way to Fanny’s heart. She was not to be won by all that
gallantry and wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least, she
would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of
sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects.

“Our liturgy,” observed Crawford, “has beauties, which not even a
careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has also
redundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt.
For myself, at least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I
ought to be” (here was a glance at Fanny); “that nineteen times out of
twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to
have it to read myself. Did you speak?” stepping eagerly to Fanny, and
addressing her in a softened voice; and upon her saying “No,” he added,
“Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you
might be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_
my thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so?”

“No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to—even supposing—”

She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be
prevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of
supplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and
went on as if there had been no such tender interruption.

“A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well
read. A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing. It is more difficult
to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and trick of
composition are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly good sermon,
thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification. I can never hear
such a one without the greatest admiration and respect, and more than
half a mind to take orders and preach myself. There is something in the
eloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence, which is entitled
to the highest praise and honour. The preacher who can touch and affect
such an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long
worn threadbare in all common hands; who can say anything new or
striking, anything that rouses the attention without offending the
taste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one
could not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I should like to be
such a man.”

Edmund laughed.

“I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my
life without a sort of envy. But then, I must have a London audience. I
could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable of
estimating my composition. And I do not know that I should be fond of
preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring,
after being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but
not for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy.”

Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head, and
Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her
meaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and
sitting down close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack,
that looks and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as
possible into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very
sincerely wishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into
explaining away that shake of the head to the satisfaction of her
ardent lover; and as earnestly trying to bury every sound of the
business from himself in murmurs of his own, over the various
advertisements of “A most desirable Estate in South Wales”; “To Parents
and Guardians”; and a “Capital season’d Hunter.”

Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless
as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund’s
arrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest,
gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and
inquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.

“What did that shake of the head mean?” said he. “What was it meant to
express? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what? What had I been saying to
displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly,
irreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if I
was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one
moment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean?”

In vain was her “Pray, sir, don’t; pray, Mr. Crawford,” repeated twice
over; and in vain did she try to move away. In the same low, eager
voice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging the same
questions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.

“How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can—”

“Do I astonish you?” said he. “Do you wonder? Is there anything in my
present entreaty that you do not understand? I will explain to you
instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me
an interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity.
I will not leave you to wonder long.”

In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said
nothing.

“You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like to
engage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy. Yes, that
was the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I would spell it,
read it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did
you think I ought?”

“Perhaps, sir,” said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking—“perhaps,
sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well
as you seemed to do at that moment.”

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined to
keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an
extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was
only a change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to
another. He had always something to entreat the explanation of. The
opportunity was too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her
in her uncle’s room, none such might occur again before his leaving
Mansfield. Lady Bertram’s being just on the other side of the table was
a trifle, for she might always be considered as only half-awake, and
Edmund’s advertisements were still of the first utility.

“Well,” said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant
answers; “I am happier than I was, because I now understand more
clearly your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the
whim of the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an
opinion, no wonder that—But we shall see.—It is not by protestations
that I shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by
telling you that my affections are steady. My conduct shall speak for
me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me. _They_ shall prove
that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You
are infinitely my superior in merit; all _that_ I know. You have
qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a degree in
any human creature. You have some touches of the angel in you beyond
what—not merely beyond what one sees, because one never sees anything
like it—but beyond what one fancies might be. But still I am not
frightened. It is not by equality of merit that you can be won. That is
out of the question. It is he who sees and worships your merit the
strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a
return. There I build my confidence. By that right I do and will
deserve you; and when once convinced that my attachment is what I
declare it, I know you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes.
Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay” (seeing her draw back displeased),
“forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet no right; but by what other name can
I call you? Do you suppose you are ever present to my imagination under
any other? No, it is ‘Fanny’ that I think of all day, and dream of all
night. You have given the name such reality of sweetness, that nothing
else can now be descriptive of you.”

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained
from at least trying to get away in spite of all the too public
opposition she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of
approaching relief, the very sound which she had been long watching
for, and long thinking strangely delayed.

The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and
cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous
imprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She
was at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who
might speak and hear. But though the conference had seemed full long to
him, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation,
he inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and listened
to without some profit to the speaker.




CHAPTER XXXV


Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse
whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned
between them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should
never be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve,
he was induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his
influence might do for his friend.

A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords’
departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one more
effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his
professions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to
sustain them as possible.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr.
Crawford’s character in that point. He wished him to be a model of
constancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not
trying him too long.

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he
wanted to know Fanny’s feelings. She had been used to consult him in
every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her
confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be
of service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to? If she did
not need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny
estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of
things; a state which he must break through, and which he could easily
learn to think she was wanting him to break through.

“I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of
speaking to her alone,” was the result of such thoughts as these; and
upon Sir Thomas’s information of her being at that very time walking
alone in the shrubbery, he instantly joined her.

“I am come to walk with you, Fanny,” said he. “Shall I?” Drawing her
arm within his. “It is a long while since we have had a comfortable
walk together.”

She assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.

“But, Fanny,” he presently added, “in order to have a comfortable walk,
something more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together.
You must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know
what you are thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to
hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?”

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, “If you hear of it from
everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell.”

“Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell
me them. I do not mean to press you, however. If it is not what you
wish yourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief.”

“I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in
talking of what I feel.”

“Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare
say that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as much
alike as they have been used to be: to the point—I consider Crawford’s
proposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his
affection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should
wish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done
exactly as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement
between us here?”

“Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me.
This is such a comfort!”

“This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But
how could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me
an advocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless in general
on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was
at stake?”

“My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you.”

“As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be
sorry, I may be surprised—though hardly _that_, for you had not had
time to attach yourself—but I think you perfectly right. Can it admit
of a question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love
him; nothing could have justified your accepting him.”

Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.

“So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken
who wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here.
Crawford’s is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of
creating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know,
must be a work of time. But” (with an affectionate smile) “let him
succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved
yourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and
tender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which
I have always believed you born for.”

“Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me.” And she spoke
with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at
the recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him
reply, “Never! Fanny!—so very determined and positive! This is not like
yourself, your rational self.”

“I mean,” she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, “that I _think_ I
never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never
shall return his regard.”

“I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford can
be, that the man who means to make you love him (you having due notice
of his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your
early attachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get
your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds
upon things animate and inanimate, which so many years’ growth have
confirmed, and which are considerably tightened for the moment by the
very idea of separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced
to quit Mansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he
had not been obliged to tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had
known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have
won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not
have failed. He should have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however,
that time, proving him (as I firmly believe it will) to deserve you by
his steady affection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that
you have not the _wish_ to love him—the natural wish of gratitude. You
must have some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own
indifference.”

“We are so totally unlike,” said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, “we
are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that I
consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy
together, even if I _could_ like him. There never were two people more
dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable.”

“You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are
quite enough alike. You _have_ tastes in common. You have moral and
literary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent
feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to
Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? You
forget yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I
allow. He is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his
spirits will support yours. It is your disposition to be easily
dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than they are. His
cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees difficulties nowhere: and
his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your
being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make
against the probability of your happiness together: do not imagine it.
I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance. I am
perfectly persuaded that the tempers had better be unlike: I mean
unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, in the inclination
for much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to be silent,
to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly
convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes, of
course; and a very close resemblance in all those points would be the
likeliest way to produce an extreme. A counteraction, gentle and
continual, is the best safeguard of manners and conduct.”

Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss
Crawford’s power was all returning. He had been speaking of her
cheerfully from the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite
at an end. He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.

After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny,
feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, “It is
not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to
myself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us
too great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but
there is something in him which I object to still more. I must say,
cousin, that I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of
him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared
to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly—I may speak of it now because
it is all over—so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care
how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria,
which—in short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which
will never be got over.”

“My dear Fanny,” replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, “let
us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of
general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to
recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong
together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest
were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open.”

“As a bystander,” said Fanny, “perhaps I saw more than you did; and I
do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous.”

“Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the
whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be
capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be
surprised at the rest.”

“Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was
paying her attentions.”

“Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with
Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope
I do justice to my sisters’ good qualities, I think it very possible
that they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by
Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was
perfectly prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his
society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and
it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to—there could be
nothing very striking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions:
his heart was reserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you
has raised him inconceivably in my opinion. It does him the highest
honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing of domestic
happiness and pure attachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It
proves him, in short, everything that I had been used to wish to
believe him, and feared he was not.”

“I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious
subjects.”

“Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects,
which I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise,
with such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed,
which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they
are? Crawford’s _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto
been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been
good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to
attach himself to such a creature—to a woman who, firm as a rock in her
own principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to
recommend them. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity.
He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you
will make him everything.”

“I would not engage in such a charge,” cried Fanny, in a shrinking
accent; “in such an office of high responsibility!”

“As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everything
too much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into
different feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess
myself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common interest in
Crawford’s well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first
claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in
Crawford.”

Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked
on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund
first began again—

“I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,
particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing
everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet
I was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as
it deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on some
woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those
worldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. But it was
very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires
the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk
about it. I should not have mentioned the subject, though very anxious
to know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutes
before she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and
sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are so
much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity.”

“Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?”

“Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by
themselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you,
Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in.”

“It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford.”

“Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her,
however, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must
be prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine
her anger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks
her brother has a right to everything he may wish for, at the first
moment. She is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and
esteems you with all her heart.”

“I knew she would be very angry with me.”

“My dearest Fanny,” cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him, “do
not let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger to be talked of
rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for
resentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise; I
wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said that you
_should_ be Henry’s wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you
as ‘Fanny,’ which she was never used to do; and it had a sound of most
sisterly cordiality.”

“And Mrs. Grant, did she say—did she speak; was she there all the
time?”

“Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of your
refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. That you could refuse
such a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I
said what I could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the
case—you must prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by
a different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is
teasing you. I have done. Do not turn away from me.”

“I _should_ have thought,” said Fanny, after a pause of recollection
and exertion, “that every woman must have felt the possibility of a
man’s not being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at
least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the
perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as
certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to
like himself. But, even supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to
have all the claims which his sisters think he has, how was I to be
prepared to meet him with any feeling answerable to his own? He took me
wholly by surprise. I had not an idea that his behaviour to me before
had any meaning; and surely I was not to be teaching myself to like him
only because he was taking what seemed very idle notice of me. In my
situation, it would have been the extreme of vanity to be forming
expectations on Mr. Crawford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they
do, must have thought it so, supposing he had meant nothing. How, then,
was I to be—to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me?
How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked
for? His sisters should consider me as well as him. The higher his
deserts, the more improper for me ever to have thought of him. And,
and—we think very differently of the nature of women, if they can
imagine a woman so very soon capable of returning an affection as this
seems to imply.”

“My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be the
truth; and most worthy of you are such feelings. I had attributed them
to you before. I thought I could understand you. You have now given
exactly the explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend
and Mrs. Grant, and they were both better satisfied, though your
warm-hearted friend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm
of her fondness for Henry. I told them that you were of all human
creatures the one over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and
that the very circumstance of the novelty of Crawford’s addresses was
against him. Their being so new and so recent was all in their
disfavour; that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used to;
and a great deal more to the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of
your character. Miss Crawford made us laugh by her plans of
encouragement for her brother. She meant to urge him to persevere in
the hope of being loved in time, and of having his addresses most
kindly received at the end of about ten years’ happy marriage.”

Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her
feelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been doing wrong:
saying too much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying
necessary; in guarding against one evil, laying herself open to
another; and to have Miss Crawford’s liveliness repeated to her at such
a moment, and on such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved
to forbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name of
Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what _must_ be
agreeable to her. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed—“They
go on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either
to-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a
trifle of being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! I
had almost promised it. What a difference it might have made! Those
five or six days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life.”

“You were near staying there?”

“Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had I
received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all going
on, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that
had happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long
enough.”

“You spent your time pleasantly there?”

“Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. They were
all very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with
me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again.”

“The Miss Owens—you liked them, did not you?”

“Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am
spoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected
girls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They
are two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me
too nice.”

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her
looks, it could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led
her directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into
the house.




CHAPTER XXXVI


Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny
could tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and he
was satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure
on Crawford’s side, and time must be given to make the idea first
familiar, and then agreeable to her. She must be used to the
consideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of
affection might not be very distant.

He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;
and recommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther
attempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left
to Crawford’s assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund’s account of Fanny’s
disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those
feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she _had_;
for, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not
help fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were
necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving
his addresses properly before the young man’s inclination for paying
them were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit
quietly and hope the best.

The promised visit from “her friend,” as Edmund called Miss Crawford,
was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of
it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of
what she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was
in every way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her
penetration, and her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the
dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny’s only
support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little as
possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no
solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden
attack.

She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when
Miss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford
looking and speaking with much less particularity of expression than
she had anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse
to be endured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she
hoped too much; Miss Crawford was not the slave of opportunity. She was
determined to see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably
soon, in a low voice, “I must speak to you for a few minutes
somewhere”; words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and
all her nerves. Denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission,
on the contrary, made her almost instantly rise and lead the way out of
the room. She did it with wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.

They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance was
over on Miss Crawford’s side. She immediately shook her head at Fanny
with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed
hardly able to help beginning directly. She said nothing, however, but,
“Sad, sad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding you,” and
had discretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be secure of
having four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and
took her guest to the apartment which was now always fit for
comfortable use; opening the door, however, with a most aching heart,
and feeling that she had a more distressing scene before her than ever
that spot had yet witnessed. But the evil ready to burst on her was at
least delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford’s ideas; by the
strong effect on her mind which the finding herself in the East room
again produced.

“Ha!” she cried, with instant animation, “am I here again? The East
room! Once only was I in this room before”; and after stopping to look
about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she
added, “Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your
cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal. You were our audience and
prompter. A delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we
were, just in this part of the room: here was your cousin, here was I,
here were the chairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?”

Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely
self-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.

“The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of it
so very—very—what shall I say? He was to be describing and recommending
matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as demure and
composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches. ‘When two
sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called
a happy life.’ I suppose no time can ever wear out the impression I
have of his looks and voice as he said those words. It was curious,
very curious, that we should have such a scene to play! If I had the
power of recalling any one week of my existence, it should be that
week—that acting week. Say what you would, Fanny, it should be _that_;
for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other. His sturdy
spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But alas,
that very evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought your most
unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet, Fanny,
do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas, though
I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice now. He
is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober
sadness, I believe I now love you all.” And having said so, with a
degree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in
her before, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away for a
moment to recover herself. “I have had a little fit since I came into
this room, as you may perceive,” said she presently, with a playful
smile, “but it is over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for
as to scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I have
not the heart for it when it comes to the point.” And embracing her
very affectionately, “Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being
the last time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite
impossible to do anything but love you.”

Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her
feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word
“last.” She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she
possibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of
such emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said, “I hate to leave
you. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we
shall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to be
connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear
Fanny.”

Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, “But you are
only going from one set of friends to another. You are going to a very
particular friend.”

“Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But
I have not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of
the friends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the
Bertrams in general. You have all so much more _heart_ among you than
one finds in the world at large. You all give me a feeling of being
able to trust and confide in you, which in common intercourse one knows
nothing of. I wish I had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till
after Easter, a much better time for the visit, but now I cannot put
her off. And when I have done with her I must go to her sister, Lady
Stornaway, because _she_ was rather my most particular friend of the
two, but I have not cared much for _her_ these three years.”

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each
thoughtful: Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in
the world, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. _She_ first
spoke again.

“How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, and
setting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea
whereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking of as I
came along, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table
at work; and then your cousin’s astonishment, when he opened the door,
at seeing me here! To be sure, your uncle’s returning that very
evening! There never was anything quite like it.”

Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she
thus attacked her companion.

“Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one
who is always thinking of you. Oh! that I could transport you for a
short time into our circle in town, that you might understand how your
power over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and
heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that
will be felt at hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry is
quite the hero of an old romance, and glories in his chains. You should
come to London to know how to estimate your conquest. If you were to
see how he is courted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now, I am
well aware that I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in
consequence of his situation with you. When she comes to know the truth
she will, very likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for there is
a daughter of Mr. Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is wild to get
married, and wants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to
such a degree. Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an
idea of the _sensation_ that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity
there will be to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to
answer! Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes and
your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish
Margaret were married, for my poor friend’s sake, for I look upon the
Frasers to be about as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it
was a most desirable match for Janet at the time. We were all
delighted. She could not do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich,
and she had nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered and _exigeant_, and
wants a young woman, a beautiful young woman of five-and-twenty, to be
as steady as himself. And my friend does not manage him well; she does
not seem to know how to make the best of it. There is a spirit of
irritation which, to say nothing worse, is certainly very ill-bred. In
their house I shall call to mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield
Parsonage with respect. Even Dr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence
in my sister, and a certain consideration for her judgment, which makes
one feel there _is_ attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with
the Frasers. I shall be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as
a wife, Sir Thomas Bertram as a husband, are my standards of
perfection. Poor Janet has been sadly taken in, and yet there was
nothing improper on her side: she did not run into the match
inconsiderately; there was no want of foresight. She took three days to
consider of his proposals, and during those three days asked the advice
of everybody connected with her whose opinion was worth having, and
especially applied to my late dear aunt, whose knowledge of the world
made her judgment very generally and deservedly looked up to by all the
young people of her acquaintance, and she was decidedly in favour of
Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were a security for matrimonial
comfort. I have not so much to say for my friend Flora, who jilted a
very nice young man in the Blues for the sake of that horrid Lord
Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as Mr. Rushworth, but
much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character. I _had_ my doubts
at the time about her being right, for he has not even the air of a
gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye, Flora Ross was
dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I to attempt to
tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love with him, I
should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can
think of him with anything like indifference. But are you so insensible
as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are not.”

There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny’s face at that moment as
might warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.

“Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its
course. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely
unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is not
possible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some
surmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to
please you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you
at the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received
it just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I
remember it perfectly.”

“Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand?
Oh! Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair.”

“Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am
ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted
to act on his proposal for both your sakes.”

“I will not say,” replied Fanny, “that I was not half afraid at the
time of its being so, for there was something in your look that
frightened me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at
first—indeed, indeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had I
had an idea of it, nothing should have induced me to accept the
necklace. As to your brother’s behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a
particularity: I had been sensible of it some little time, perhaps two
or three weeks; but then I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it
down as simply being his way, and was as far from supposing as from
wishing him to have any serious thoughts of me. I had not, Miss
Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing between him
and some part of this family in the summer and autumn. I was quiet, but
I was not blind. I could not but see that Mr. Crawford amused himself
in gallantries which did mean nothing.”

“Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and cared
very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies’
affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault;
and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any
affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one
who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one’s power to pay off
the debts of one’s sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman’s nature to
refuse such a triumph.”

Fanny shook her head. “I cannot think well of a man who sports with any
woman’s feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered
than a stander-by can judge of.”

“I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he
has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But
this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little in
love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife’s happiness as a
tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to.
And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a
way that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all
his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man
ever loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you.”

Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.

“I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier,” continued Mary
presently, “than when he had succeeded in getting your brother’s
commission.”

She had made a sure push at Fanny’s feelings here.

“Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him.”

“I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties
he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours;
and there are so many young men’s claims to be attended to in the same
way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put
by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him.”

Poor Fanny’s mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its
varieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was
always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr.
Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been
first watching her complacently, and then musing on something else,
suddenly called her attention by saying: “I should like to sit talking
with you here all day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so
good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall
nominally part in the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here.
And I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that
when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our
hearts to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve.”

A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied
these words.

“I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there
tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the
spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am
sure of meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to
ask, Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the
other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for
my being gone.”

The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been
asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it
was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her
own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent
affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond
treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the
more overcome by Miss Crawford’s. Besides, there was gratitude towards
her, for having made their _tête-à-tête_ so much less painful than her
fears had predicted.

It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without
detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case,
she thought she could resign herself to almost everything.

In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat
some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the
strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him,
because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he
scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must
grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he
were the husband of some other woman.

When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would
not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard,
and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token
of friendship had passed.

On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.




CHAPTER XXXVII


Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas’s next object was that he should be
missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank
in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or
fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering
form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into
nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched
her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He
hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not.
She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his
discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and
therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the
present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had
been.

Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a
little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could
produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford’s sister, the friend
and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly
regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so
little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the
chief bane of Fanny’s comfort. If she could have believed Mary’s future
fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother’s
should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant
as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of
heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more
deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for
Miss Crawford’s marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his
side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His
objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody
could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were
equally got over—and equally without apparent reason. It could only be
imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded
to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as
some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed—perhaps within
a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once
with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be
as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still
remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her,
independently, she believed, independently of self.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some
amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss
Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any
suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might
love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny
believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them;
and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of
Miss Crawford’s future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking
that if Edmund’s influence in this season of love had already done so
little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth
would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony.

Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced,
and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford’s nature that
participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to
adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But
as such were Fanny’s persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and
could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.

Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own
observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human
nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and
consequence on his niece’s spirits, and the past attentions of the
lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards
able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all
this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow
to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had
obtained a ten days’ leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire,
and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made,
to shew his happiness and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there
too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So
the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before
Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the
freshness of its wearer’s feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk
into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more
worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant
a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned
Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed
Fanny’s chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all
his glory in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to
Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had
occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and
desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he
consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but
what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at
a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to
Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive “then so
it shall be” closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring
from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and
above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in
sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing
her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her
happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly
wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that
a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park
would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster
estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal
comfort, of which she had the offer.

It was a medicinal project upon his niece’s understanding, which he
must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine
years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her
powers of comparing and judging. Her father’s house would, in all
probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that
she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the
experiment he had devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong
attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her
uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,
and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of
returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with
William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the
certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his
remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must
have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a
quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she
was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the
moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised
with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more
largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were
emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The
remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered
in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it
seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since
grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle,
loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before;
to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal
of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the
Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on
their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that
could be but half acknowledged.

Edmund, too—to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be
allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance,
unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual
irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence,
she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should
be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there,
without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield
was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram’s being comfortable
without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be
missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of
the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish,
and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all.

But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any
measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long
talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny’s
sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go;
obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady
Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought
Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her
own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations,
unbiased by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any
necessity for Fanny’s ever going near a father and mother who had done
without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the
not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris’s discussion was the point
attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting
any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He
called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command
as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be
very well spared—_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her
as requested—and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.

“That may be, sister,” was all Lady Bertram’s reply. “I dare say you
are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much.”

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer
herself; and her mother’s answer, though short, was so kind—a few
simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of
seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter’s views of
happiness in being with her—convincing her that she should now find a
warm and affectionate friend in the “mama” who had certainly shewn no
remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose
to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated
love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been
unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could
deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to
forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the
incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be
leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what
mother and daughter ought to be to each other.

William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the
greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he
sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first
cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush
before she went out of harbour—the Thrush was certainly the finest
sloop in the service—and there were several improvements in the
dockyard, too, which he quite longed to shew her.

He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a
great advantage to everybody.

“I do not know how it is,” said he; “but we seem to want some of your
nice ways and orderliness at my father’s. The house is always in
confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You
will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful
to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind
you. How right and comfortable it will all be!”

By the time Mrs. Price’s answer arrived, there remained but a very few
days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days
the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of
their journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs.
Norris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law’s money
was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less
expensive conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw
Sir Thomas actually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck
with the idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and
suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and
see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must
say that she had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it
would be such an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear
sister Price for more than twenty years; and it would be a help to the
young people in their journey to have her older head to manage for
them; and she could not help thinking her poor dear sister Price would
feel it very unkind of her not to come by such an opportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at
once. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their
suspense lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or
dissuade. Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it
ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection
that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present;
that she was a great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram
for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a
week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to
that of being useful to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for
nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own
expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the
disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty
years’ absence, perhaps, begun.

Edmund’s plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence
of Fanny’s. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as
his aunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but
he could not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of
most importance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort,
felt but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey
which he was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his
happiness for ever.

He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know
everything. It made the substance of one other confidential discourse
about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to
be the last time in which Miss Crawford’s name would ever be mentioned
between them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards she was
alluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the
evening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good
correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added
in a whisper, “And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything
worth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to
hear, and that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter.” Had
she doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when
she looked up at him, would have been decisive.

For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund
should be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet
gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the
progress of time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world
of changes. The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been
exhausted by her.

Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last
evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was
completely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house,
much more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because
she would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling
sobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could
neither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with
_him_; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her
the affectionate farewell of a brother.

All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in
the morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast,
William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.




CHAPTER XXXVIII


The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William,
soon produced their natural effect on Fanny’s spirits, when Mansfield
Park was fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was
ended, and they were to quit Sir Thomas’s carriage, she was able to
take leave of the old coachman, and send back proper messages, with
cheerful looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end.
Everything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William’s mind,
and he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their
higher-toned subjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in
praise of the Thrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes
for an action with some superior force, which (supposing the first
lieutenant out of the way, and William was not very merciful to the
first lieutenant) was to give himself the next step as soon as
possible, or speculations upon prize-money, which was to be generously
distributed at home, with only the reservation of enough to make the
little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny were to pass all
their middle and later life together.

Fanny’s immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made
no part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and from
his heart lamented that his sister’s feelings should be so cold towards
a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but he
was of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame; and
knowing her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the
slightest allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford.
She had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which
had passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had
been a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches.
It was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she
had feared. Miss Crawford’s style of writing, lively and affectionate,
was itself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into
reading from the brother’s pen, for Edmund would never rest till she
had read the chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to
his admiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments.
There had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of
recollection, so much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could
not but suppose it meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced
into a purpose of that kind, compelled into a correspondence which was
bringing her the addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging
her to administer to the adverse passion of the man she did, was
cruelly mortifying. Here, too, her present removal promised advantage.
When no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss
Crawford would have no motive for writing strong enough to overcome the
trouble, and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into
nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded
in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could
rationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. They entered
Oxford, but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund’s college as
they passed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury,
where a comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the
enjoyments and fatigues of the day.

The next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no
events, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the
environs of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look
around her, and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the
drawbridge, and entered the town; and the light was only beginning to
fail as, guided by William’s powerful voice, they were rattled into a
narrow street, leading from the High Street, and drawn up before the
door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The
moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in
waiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on
telling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with,
“The Thrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers
has been here to—” She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven
years old, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and
while William was opening the chaise-door himself, called out, “You are
just in time. We have been looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush
went out of harbour this morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight.
And they think she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr.
Campbell was here at four o’clock to ask for you: he has got one of the
Thrush’s boats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would be
here in time to go with him.”

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was
all the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made no
objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in
detailing farther particulars of the Thrush’s going out of harbour, in
which he had a strong right of interest, being to commence his career
of seamanship in her at this very time.

Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the
house, and in her mother’s arms, who met her there with looks of true
kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they
brought her aunt Bertram’s before her, and there were her two sisters:
Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of
the family, about five—both glad to see her in their way, though with
no advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want.
Would they but love her, she should be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction
was of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood
for a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was no
other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she
called back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they
should have been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long
enough to suspect anything. She was gone again to the street-door, to
welcome William. “Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you. But
have you heard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already;
three days before we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am
to do about Sam’s things, they will never be ready in time; for she may
have her orders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now
you must be off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a
worry about you; and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a
comfortable evening with you, and here everything comes upon me at
once.”

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for
the best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to
hurry away so soon.

“To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might
have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat
ashore, I had better go off at once, and there is no help for it.
Whereabouts does the Thrush lay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no
matter; here’s Fanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in the
passage? Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny
yet.”

In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter
again, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural
solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.

“Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? I
began to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been watching
for you this half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? And what
would you like to have now? I could not tell whether you would be for
some meat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey, or else I would
have got something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here
before there is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand.
It is very inconvenient to have no butcher in the street. We were
better off in our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea as soon
as it can be got.”

They both declared they should prefer it to anything. “Then, Betsey, my
dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on; and
tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could
get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger.”

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her fine
new sister.

“Dear me!” continued the anxious mother, “what a sad fire we have got,
and I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your chair nearer,
my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told
her to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken
care of the fire.”

“I was upstairs, mama, moving my things,” said Susan, in a fearless,
self-defending tone, which startled Fanny. “You know you had but just
settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I
could not get Rebecca to give me any help.”

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver
came to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca
about the manner of carrying up his sister’s trunk, which he would
manage all his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his
own loud voice preceding him, as with something of the oath kind he
kicked away his son’s portmanteau and his daughter’s bandbox in the
passage, and called out for a candle; no candle was brought, however,
and he walked into the room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again
on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. With
a friendly shake of his son’s hand, and an eager voice, he instantly
began—“Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the
news? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the word,
you see! By G—, you are just in time! The doctor has been here
inquiring for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for
Spithead by six, so you had better go with him. I have been to Turner’s
about your mess; it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if
you had your orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if
you are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will
certainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant. By G—, I
wish you may! But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you
would be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are ready, whatever
happens. But by G—, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the
morning to see the Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out
of the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time,
to say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up,
and made but two steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect
beauty afloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and anybody
in England would take her for an eight-and-twenty. I was upon the
platform two hours this afternoon looking at her. She lays close to the
Endymion, between her and the Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the
sheer hulk.”

“Ha!” cried William, “_that’s_ just where I should have put her myself.
It’s the best berth at Spithead. But here is my sister, sir; here is
Fanny,” turning and leading her forward; “it is so dark you do not see
her.”

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now
received his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed
that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a
husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny
shrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and
his smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the
Thrush, though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject,
more than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long
absence and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was
still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey’s reports from the
kitchen, much hope of any under a considerable period, William
determined to go and change his dress, and make the necessary
preparations for his removal on board directly, that he might have his
tea in comfort afterwards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight
and nine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and
coming eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone
out of harbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny’s
going away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a
particular pleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly,
but Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the
baby she had loved, and talked to, of his infant preference of herself.
Tom, however, had no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand
and be talked to, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had
soon burst from her, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples
ached.

She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two
brothers between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public
office in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But
though she had _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not yet
_heard_ all the noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour
brought her a great deal more. William was soon calling out from the
landing-place of the second story for his mother and for Rebecca. He
was in distress for something that he had left there, and did not find
again. A key was mislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat,
and some slight, but essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat,
which he had been promised to have done for him, entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all
talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done as
well as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send
Betsey down again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was;
the whole of which, as almost every door in the house was open, could
be plainly distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at
intervals by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each
other up and down stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of
the walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the
fatigue of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew
how to bear it. _Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan
having disappeared with the others, there were soon only her father and
herself remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan
of a neighbour, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to
recollect her existence. The solitary candle was held between himself
and the paper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but
she had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her
aching head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.

She was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a
welcome, as—she checked herself; she was unreasonable. What right had
she to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long
lost sight of! William’s concerns must be dearest, they always had
been, and he had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked about
herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain
her to have Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so much—the
dear, dear friends! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest.
Perhaps it must be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now
preeminently interesting. A day or two might shew the difference. _She_
only was to blame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at
Mansfield. No, in her uncle’s house there would have been a
consideration of times and seasons, a regulation of subject, a
propriety, an attention towards everybody which there was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly
half an hour was from a sudden burst of her father’s, not at all
calculated to compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping
and hallooing in the passage, he exclaimed, “Devil take those young
dogs! How they are singing out! Ay, Sam’s voice louder than all the
rest! That boy is fit for a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your
confounded pipe, or I shall be after you.”

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five
minutes afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and
sat down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than
their being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and
panting breaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking
each other’s shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately
under their father’s eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for
the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that
evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance
informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the
upper servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan
looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister,
as if divided between the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and
usefulness, and the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an
office. “She had been into the kitchen,” she said, “to hurry Sally and
help make the toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not
know when they should have got tea, and she was sure her sister must
want something after her journey.”

Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be very
glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if
pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little
unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her
brothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.
Fanny’s spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart
were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open,
sensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her
like him in disposition and goodwill towards herself.

In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not far
behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant’s
uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful
for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly
to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in
speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob
out her various emotions of pain and pleasure.

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping
away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts of
his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of
being on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of
getting her to Spithead to see the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a
very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for
whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty
washing of the young tea-maker’s, a cup and saucer; and after another
quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising
upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion
together, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready,
William took leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in
spite of their mother’s entreaty, determined to see their brother and
Mr. Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same
time to carry back his neighbour’s newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,
when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things, and
Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a
shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the
kitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the
mother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam
ready in time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the
friends she had come from.

A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest—“How did sister Bertram
manage about her servants?” “Was she as much plagued as herself to get
tolerable servants?”—soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and
fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of
all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the
very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten
in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much to
depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so
thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help
modestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year
was up.

“Her year!” cried Mrs. Price; “I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her
before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November.
Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is
quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope
of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only
get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult
mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there
is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself.”

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be
a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at
Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very
pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she
went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There
had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early
days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at
last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The
sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she
would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world.
While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance,
was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at
the same time from Susan’s.

“What have you got there, my love?” said Fanny; “come and shew it to
me.”

It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and
trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother’s protection,
and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently
hoping to interest Fanny on her side. “It was very hard that she was
not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary
had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to
keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always
letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey
would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her
that Betsey should not have it in her own hands.”

Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness
was wounded by her sister’s speech and her mother’s reply.

“Now, Susan,” cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, “now, how can
you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish
you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is
to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you
to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so
cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little
thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to
keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but
just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, ‘Let sister Susan
have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.’ Poor little dear! she
was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all
through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs.
Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor
little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My
own Betsey” (fondling her), “_you_ have not the luck of such a good
godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people
as you.”

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to
say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her
book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room
at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound
had been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home
and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but,
upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found to
have too small a print for a child’s eyes, and the other to be too
cumbersome for her to carry about.

Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first
invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at
being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of
sister, she was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again;
the boys begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum
and water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily
furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of
the rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage
and staircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon learned to
think with respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in _that_
house reckoned too small for anybody’s comfort.




CHAPTER XXXIX


Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece’s feelings, when she wrote her
first letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though a
good night’s rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William
again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and
Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her
father on his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully
on the subject of home, there were still, to her own perfect
consciousness, many drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen only half
that she felt before the end of a week, he would have thought Mr.
Crawford sure of her, and been delighted with his own sagacity.

Before the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place,
William was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed,
and he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and
during those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried
way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free
conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no
acquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and
depended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except William’s
affection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped
back again to the door to say, “Take care of Fanny, mother. She is
tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge you,
take care of Fanny.”

William was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not
conceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse of
what she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and
impropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it
ought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her
father, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent
of his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than she
had been prepared for. He did not want abilities but he had no
curiosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read only the
newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard, the
harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he was
dirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching
to tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained
only a general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he
scarcely ever noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.

Her disappointment in her mother was greater: _there_ she had hoped
much, and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme of being of
consequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind;
but, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming
more and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from
her than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was
soon satisfied, and Mrs. Price’s attachment had no other source. Her
heart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure nor
affection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her.
She was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the
first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most
injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling; and
John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her
maternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These
shared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her
servants. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy
without getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it, without
altering her ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or
regularity; dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them
better, and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them,
without any power of engaging their respect.

Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram
than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs.
Norris’s inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition
was naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram’s; and a situation
of similar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more
suited to her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one
which her imprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made
just as good a woman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris
would have been a more respectable mother of nine children on a small
income.

Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple
to make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother was
a partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught
nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement
and discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no
conversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her
better, no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company
that could lessen her sense of such feelings.

Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home,
or in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education,
from contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about
working for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with
perseverance and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped
off at last, with more than half his linen ready. She had great
pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they
would have managed without her.

Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went,
for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in any
errand in the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan,
given as they were, though very reasonable in themselves, with
ill-timed and powerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by
Fanny’s services and gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of
the three younger ones was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least
as many years as they were his juniors distant from that age of feeling
and reason, which might suggest the expediency of making friends, and
of endeavouring to be less disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of
making the smallest impression on _them_; they were quite untameable by
any means of address which she had spirits or time to attempt. Every
afternoon brought a return of their riotous games all over the house;
and she very early learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday’s
constant half-holiday.

Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her
greatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and then
encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to
despair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan’s temper she had
many doubts. Her continual disagreements with her mother, her rash
squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at
least so distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they were by no
means without provocation, she feared the disposition that could push
them to such length must be far from amiable, and from affording any
repose to herself.

Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and teach
her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On the
contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved
inmates, its happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contrast
to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps, above
all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her
remembrance every hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything
opposite to them _here_.

The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and
nervous like Fanny’s, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony
could have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At
Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts,
no tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course
of cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance;
everybody’s feelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever
supposed wanting, good sense and good breeding supplied its place; and
as to the little irritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, they
were short, they were trifling, they were as a drop of water to the
ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Here
everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her
mother’s, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram’s, only
worn into fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the
servants hallooed out their excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in
constant banging, the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done
without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could command attention
when they spoke.

In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end
of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson’s celebrated
judgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield
Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.




CHAPTER XL


Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford now
at the rapid rate in which their correspondence had begun; Mary’s next
letter was after a decidedly longer interval than the last, but she was
not right in supposing that such an interval would be felt a great
relief to herself. Here was another strange revolution of mind! She was
really glad to receive the letter when it did come. In her present
exile from good society, and distance from everything that had been
wont to interest her, a letter from one belonging to the set where her
heart lived, written with affection, and some degree of elegance, was
thoroughly acceptable. The usual plea of increasing engagements was
made in excuse for not having written to her earlier; “And now that I
have begun,” she continued, “my letter will not be worth your reading,
for there will be no little offering of love at the end, no three or
four lines _passionnées_ from the most devoted H. C. in the world, for
Henry is in Norfolk; business called him to Everingham ten days ago, or
perhaps he only pretended the call, for the sake of being travelling at
the same time that you were. But there he is, and, by the bye, his
absence may sufficiently account for any remissness of his sister’s in
writing, for there has been no ‘Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny?
Is not it time for you to write to Fanny?’ to spur me on. At last,
after various attempts at meeting, I have seen your cousins, ‘dear
Julia and dearest Mrs. Rushworth’; they found me at home yesterday, and
we were glad to see each other again. We _seemed_ _very_ glad to see
each other, and I do really think we were a little. We had a vast deal
to say. Shall I tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was
mentioned? I did not use to think her wanting in self-possession, but
she had not quite enough for the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole,
Julia was in the best looks of the two, at least after you were spoken
of. There was no recovering the complexion from the moment that I spoke
of ‘Fanny,’ and spoke of her as a sister should. But Mrs. Rushworth’s
day of good looks will come; we have cards for her first party on the
28th. Then she will be in beauty, for she will open one of the best
houses in Wimpole Street. I was in it two years ago, when it was Lady
Lascelle’s, and prefer it to almost any I know in London, and certainly
she will then feel, to use a vulgar phrase, that she has got her
pennyworth for her penny. Henry could not have afforded her such a
house. I hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied, as well as she
may, with moving the queen of a palace, though the king may appear best
in the background; and as I have no desire to tease her, I shall never
_force_ your name upon her again. She will grow sober by degrees. From
all that I hear and guess, Baron Wildenheim’s attentions to Julia
continue, but I do not know that he has any serious encouragement. She
ought to do better. A poor honourable is no catch, and I cannot imagine
any liking in the case, for take away his rants, and the poor baron has
nothing. What a difference a vowel makes! If his rents were but equal
to his rants! Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by
parish duties. There may be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be
converted. I am unwilling to fancy myself neglected for a _young_ one.
Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny, this is a long letter from London: write me
a pretty one in reply to gladden Henry’s eyes, when he comes back, and
send me an account of all the dashing young captains whom you disdain
for his sake.”

There was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for
unpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied, it
connected her with the absent, it told her of people and things about
whom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she would have
been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. Her
correspondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of higher
interest.

As for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make amends for
deficiencies at home, there were none within the circle of her father’s
and mother’s acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfaction: she
saw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own shyness
and reserve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert,
everybody underbred; and she gave as little contentment as she received
from introductions either to old or new acquaintance. The young ladies
who approached her at first with some respect, in consideration of her
coming from a baronet’s family, were soon offended by what they termed
“airs”; for, as she neither played on the pianoforte nor wore fine
pelisses, they could, on farther observation, admit no right of
superiority.

The first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils of home,
the first which her judgment could entirely approve, and which gave any
promise of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan, and a hope
of being of service to her. Susan had always behaved pleasantly to
herself, but the determined character of her general manners had
astonished and alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight before she
began to understand a disposition so totally different from her own.
Susan saw that much was wrong at home, and wanted to set it right. That
a girl of fourteen, acting only on her own unassisted reason, should
err in the method of reform, was not wonderful; and Fanny soon became
more disposed to admire the natural light of the mind which could so
early distinguish justly, than to censure severely the faults of
conduct to which it led. Susan was only acting on the same truths, and
pursuing the same system, which her own judgment acknowledged, but
which her more supine and yielding temper would have shrunk from
asserting. Susan tried to be useful, where _she_ could only have gone
away and cried; and that Susan was useful she could perceive; that
things, bad as they were, would have been worse but for such
interposition, and that both her mother and Betsey were restrained from
some excesses of very offensive indulgence and vulgarity.

In every argument with her mother, Susan had in point of reason the
advantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness to buy her off.
The blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around her she had
never known. There was no gratitude for affection past or present to
make her better bear with its excesses to the others.

All this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan before
her sister as an object of mingled compassion and respect. That her
manner was wrong, however, at times very wrong, her measures often
ill-chosen and ill-timed, and her looks and language very often
indefensible, Fanny could not cease to feel; but she began to hope they
might be rectified. Susan, she found, looked up to her and wished for
her good opinion; and new as anything like an office of authority was
to Fanny, new as it was to imagine herself capable of guiding or
informing any one, she did resolve to give occasional hints to Susan,
and endeavour to exercise for her advantage the juster notions of what
was due to everybody, and what would be wisest for herself, which her
own more favoured education had fixed in her.

Her influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it, originated
in an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many hesitations of
delicacy, she at last worked herself up to. It had very early occurred
to her that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for ever
on the sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was
continually, and the riches which she was in possession of herself, her
uncle having given her £10 at parting, made her as able as she was
willing to be generous. But she was so wholly unused to confer favours,
except on the very poor, so unpractised in removing evils, or bestowing
kindnesses among her equals, and so fearful of appearing to elevate
herself as a great lady at home, that it took some time to determine
that it would not be unbecoming in her to make such a present. It was
made, however, at last: a silver knife was bought for Betsey, and
accepted with great delight, its newness giving it every advantage over
the other that could be desired; Susan was established in the full
possession of her own, Betsey handsomely declaring that now she had got
one so much prettier herself, she should never want _that_ again; and
no reproach seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother, which
Fanny had almost feared to be impossible. The deed thoroughly answered:
a source of domestic altercation was entirely done away, and it was the
means of opening Susan’s heart to her, and giving her something more to
love and be interested in. Susan shewed that she had delicacy: pleased
as she was to be mistress of property which she had been struggling for
at least two years, she yet feared that her sister’s judgment had been
against her, and that a reproof was designed her for having so
struggled as to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity of the
house.

Her temper was open. She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself for
having contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny, understanding the
worth of her disposition and perceiving how fully she was inclined to
seek her good opinion and refer to her judgment, began to feel again
the blessing of affection, and to entertain the hope of being useful to
a mind so much in need of help, and so much deserving it. She gave
advice, advice too sound to be resisted by a good understanding, and
given so mildly and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect
temper, and she had the happiness of observing its good effects not
unfrequently. More was not expected by one who, while seeing all the
obligation and expediency of submission and forbearance, saw also with
sympathetic acuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating to a
girl like Susan. Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became—not
that Susan should have been provoked into disrespect and impatience
against her better knowledge—but that so much better knowledge, so many
good notions should have been hers at all; and that, brought up in the
midst of negligence and error, she should have formed such proper
opinions of what ought to be; she, who had had no cousin Edmund to
direct her thoughts or fix her principles.

The intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage to each.
By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the
disturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think
it no misfortune to be quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but
that was a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the less
because reminded by it of the East room. It was the only point of
resemblance. In space, light, furniture, and prospect, there was
nothing alike in the two apartments; and she often heaved a sigh at the
remembrance of all her books and boxes, and various comforts there. By
degrees the girls came to spend the chief of the morning upstairs, at
first only in working and talking, but after a few days, the
remembrance of the said books grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny
found it impossible not to try for books again. There were none in her
father’s house; but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers
found its way to a circulating library. She became a subscriber; amazed
at being anything _in propria persona_, amazed at her own doings in
every way, to be a renter, a chuser of books! And to be having any
one’s improvement in view in her choice! But so it was. Susan had read
nothing, and Fanny longed to give her a share in her own first
pleasures, and inspire a taste for the biography and poetry which she
delighted in herself.

In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the
recollections of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her mind if her
fingers only were busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might be
useful in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London,
whither, on the authority of her aunt’s last letter, she knew he was
gone. She had no doubt of what would ensue. The promised notification
was hanging over her head. The postman’s knock within the neighbourhood
was beginning to bring its daily terrors, and if reading could banish
the idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.




CHAPTER XLI


A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had
heard nothing of him. There were three different conclusions to be
drawn from his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation; each
of them at times being held the most probable. Either his going had
been again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing
Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!

One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks
from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and
calculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as
usual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they
felt they could not avoid, from Rebecca’s alertness in going to the
door, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.

It was a gentleman’s voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning
pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.

Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and she
found that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her
remembrance of the name, as that of “William’s friend,” though she
could not previously have believed herself capable of uttering a
syllable at such a moment. The consciousness of his being known there
only as William’s friend was some support. Having introduced him,
however, and being all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this
visit might lead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the
point of fainting away.

While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first
approached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and
kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he
devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending
to her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with
a degree of friendliness, of interest at least, which was making his
manner perfect.

Mrs. Price’s manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of
such a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to
advantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude—artless,
maternal gratitude—which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out,
which she regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to feel
that _she_ could not regret it; for to her many other sources of
uneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home in which he
found her. She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was no
scolding it away. She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more
ashamed of her father than of all the rest.

They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price could never tire;
and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her heart
could wish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man in her
life; and was only astonished to find that, so great and so agreeable
as he was, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to
the port-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the intention of
going over to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard. Nothing of all
that she had been used to think of as the proof of importance, or the
employment of wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth. He had reached it
late the night before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the
Crown, had accidentally met with a navy officer or two of his
acquaintance since his arrival, but had no object of that kind in
coming.

By the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable
to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was
tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour
with his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had
sent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that
he thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having
spent scarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return from
Norfolk, before he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was in town,
had been in town, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him
himself, but that he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and
was to dine, as yesterday, with the Frasers.

Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;
nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and
the words, “then by this time it is all settled,” passed internally,
without more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.

After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her
interest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency of
an early walk. “It was a lovely morning, and at that season of the year
a fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody
not to delay their exercise”; and such hints producing nothing, he soon
proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her daughters
to take their walk without loss of time. Now they came to an
understanding. Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of
doors, except of a Sunday; she owned she could seldom, with her large
family, find time for a walk. “Would she not, then, persuade her
daughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure
of attending them?” Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and very complying.
“Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place;
they did not often get out; and she knew they had some errands in the
town, which they would be very glad to do.” And the consequence was,
that Fanny, strange as it was—strange, awkward, and distressing—found
herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High Street
with Mr. Crawford.

It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were
hardly in the High Street before they met her father, whose appearance
was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopt; and,
ungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr.
Crawford. She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr.
Crawford must be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether.
He must soon give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination
for the match; and yet, though she had been so much wanting his
affection to be cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as
bad as the complaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in
the United Kingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of
being sought by a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by
the vulgarity of her nearest relations.

Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with
any idea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly,
and to her great relief, discerned) her father was a very different
man, a very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly
respected stranger, from what he was in his own family at home. His
manners now, though not polished, were more than passable: they were
grateful, animated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached
father, and a sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open
air, and there was not a single oath to be heard. Such was his
instinctive compliment to the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the
consequence what it might, Fanny’s immediate feelings were infinitely
soothed.

The conclusion of the two gentlemen’s civilities was an offer of Mr.
Price’s to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford,
desirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though he
had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the
longer with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if
the Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow
or other ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they
were not at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but
for Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without
the smallest consideration for his daughters’ errands in the High
Street. He took care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the
shops they came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long,
for Fanny could so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for,
that before the gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more
than begin upon the last naval regulations, or settle the number of
three-deckers now in commission, their companions were ready to
proceed.

They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk
would have been conducted—according to Mr. Crawford’s opinion—in a
singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of
it, as the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and
keep up with them or not, as they could, while they walked on together
at their own hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improvement
occasionally, though by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely
would not walk away from them; and at any crossing or any crowd, when
Mr. Price was only calling out, “Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue,
take care of yourselves; keep a sharp lookout!” he would give them his
particular attendance.

Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy
intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother
lounger of Mr. Price’s, who was come to take his daily survey of how
things went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than
himself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied
going about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing
interest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the
yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all
went to look at. Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford
could not have wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down; but
he could have wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan’s
age was the very worst third in the world: totally different from Lady
Bertram, all eyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point
before her. He must content himself with being only generally
agreeable, and letting Susan have her share of entertainment, with the
indulgence, now and then, of a look or hint for the better-informed and
conscious Fanny. Norfolk was what he had mostly to talk of: there he
had been some time, and everything there was rising in importance from
his present schemes. Such a man could come from no place, no society,
without importing something to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintance
were all of use, and Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her.
For Fanny, somewhat more was related than the accidental agreeableness
of the parties he had been in. For her approbation, the particular
reason of his going into Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year,
was given. It had been real business, relative to the renewal of a
lease in which the welfare of a large and—he believed—industrious
family was at stake. He had suspected his agent of some underhand
dealing; of meaning to bias him against the deserving; and he had
determined to go himself, and thoroughly investigate the merits of the
case. He had gone, had done even more good than he had foreseen, had
been useful to more than his first plan had comprehended, and was now
able to congratulate himself upon it, and to feel that in performing a
duty, he had secured agreeable recollections for his own mind. He had
introduced himself to some tenants whom he had never seen before; he
had begun making acquaintance with cottages whose very existence,
though on his own estate, had been hitherto unknown to him. This was
aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It was pleasing to hear him speak so
properly; here he had been acting as he ought to do. To be the friend
of the poor and the oppressed! Nothing could be more grateful to her;
and she was on the point of giving him an approving look, when it was
all frightened off by his adding a something too pointed of his hoping
soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide in every plan of utility
or charity for Everingham: a somebody that would make Everingham and
all about it a dearer object than it had ever been yet.

She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was
willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been
wont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out
well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,
and ought not to think of her.

He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would
be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could
not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention
and her looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear
or to speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who knew
the place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned
it, and led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties
and comforts, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed
her to gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of
her uncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the
sweetest of all sweet tempers.

He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked
forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;
always there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a
very happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be
so: he depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the
last. As animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances of
superiority undescribable.

“Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,” he continued; “what a society
will be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth
may be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so
dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram
once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two
fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan.”

Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,
could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged
comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say
something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she
must learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon
be quite unpardonable.

When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had
time for, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their
walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute’s privacy for telling Fanny
that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come
down for a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he
could not endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really
sorry; and yet in spite of this and the two or three other things which
she wished he had not said, she thought him altogether improved since
she had seen him; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to
other people’s feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had
never seen him so agreeable—so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour to
her father could not offend, and there was something particularly kind
and proper in the notice he took of Susan. He was decidedly improved.
She wished the next day over, she wished he had come only for one day;
but it was not so very bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of
talking of Mansfield was so very great!

Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one
of no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of
taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of
horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He
was engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had
met with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he
should have the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the
morrow, etc., and so they parted—Fanny in a state of actual felicity
from escaping so horrible an evil!

To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their
deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca’s cookery and Rebecca’s
waiting, and Betsey’s eating at table without restraint, and pulling
everything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet
enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. _She_ was nice
only from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been brought up in a school of
luxury and epicurism.




CHAPTER XLII


The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.
Crawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was
asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he
had intended, and they all walked thither together.

The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no
inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their
cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to
Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother
now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram’s sister as she
was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of
the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so
little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her
mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should
have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so
slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and
tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family
of children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only
discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by
with a flower in her hat.

In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not
to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still
continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.

Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday
throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and
staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her
acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the
Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.

Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss
Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,
somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have
believed it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under
his, and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made
her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day
and in the view which would be felt.

The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in
its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for
a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of
such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships
at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the
sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the
ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination
of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the
circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his
arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted
strength for a two hours’ saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally
did, upon a week’s previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the
effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost
ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr.
Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up
now.

The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They
often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the
wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not
Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the
charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had
a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take
advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of
these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less
blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not
like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced
that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore
could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being
again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her,
must be so much greater.

“You have been here a month, I think?” said he.

“No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left
Mansfield.”

“You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a
month.”

“I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening.”

“And it is to be a two months’ visit, is not?”

“Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less.”

“And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?”

“I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps
I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched
exactly at the two months’ end.”

After a moment’s reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, “I know Mansfield, I
know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of
your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the
imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware
that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle
everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt’s maid for you,
without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he
may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do.
Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite
enough. I am considering your sister’s health,” said he, addressing
himself to Susan, “which I think the confinement of Portsmouth
unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know
her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that
she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of
the country. If, therefore” (turning again to Fanny), “you find
yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your
returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended,
_that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself
at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my
sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will
immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the
ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that
would be felt on the occasion.”

Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.

“I am perfectly serious,” he replied, “as you perfectly know. And I
hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.
Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long
only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, ‘I am well,’ and I
know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be
considered as well.”

Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree
that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of
what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He
attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own
house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended
to be waited for elsewhere.

“I wish you were not so tired,” said he, still detaining Fanny after
all the others were in the house—“I wish I left you in stronger health.
Is there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of
going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am
sure he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of
his own into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must
come to an understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not
be tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north:
that I will be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough
with him before. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to
the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is
inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly,
and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards
swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace
him, provided he does not try to displace _me_; but it would be simple
to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse
than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a
tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise
already. Would it not be worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise
it?”

“I advise! You know very well what is right.”

“Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your
judgment is my rule of right.”

“Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we
would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you
a pleasant journey to-morrow.”

“Is there nothing I can do for you in town?”

“Nothing; I am much obliged to you.”

“Have you no message for anybody?”

“My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my
cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I
shall soon hear from him.”

“Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses
myself.”

He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed
her hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next
three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best
dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and
_she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.

Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have
suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in
her father’s house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much
more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca’s
puddings and Rebecca’s hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with
such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives
and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest
meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and
buns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to
be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all,
might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being
starved, both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr.
Crawford’s good company and good fortune, he would probably have feared
to push his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.

Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably
secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low.
It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in
one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted
by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and
she could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with
Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate
herself for having them.

Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a
friend or two of her father’s, as always happened if he was not with
them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o’clock till
half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She was
very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr.
Crawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within
the current of her thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle
she had been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast,
she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and
regardful of others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it
not be so in great? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very
feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be
fairly supposed that he would not much longer persevere in a suit so
distressing to her?




CHAPTER XLIII


It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London, on
the morrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price’s; and two
days afterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following
letter from his sister, opened and read by her, on another account,
with the most anxious curiosity:—

“I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down to
Portsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to the
dockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on the next day,
on the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your sweet
looks and conversation were altogether in the most delicious harmony,
and afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect.
This, as well as I understand, is to be the substance of my
information. He makes me write, but I do not know what else is to be
communicated, except this said visit to Portsmouth, and these two said
walks, and his introduction to your family, especially to a fair sister
of yours, a fine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts,
taking her first lesson, I presume, in love. I have not time for
writing much, but it would be out of place if I had, for this is to be
a mere letter of business, penned for the purpose of conveying
necessary information, which could not be delayed without risk of evil.
My dear, dear Fanny, if I had you here, how I would talk to you! You
should listen to me till you were tired, and advise me till you were
still tired more; but it is impossible to put a hundredth part of my
great mind on paper, so I will abstain altogether, and leave you to
guess what you like. I have no news for you. You have politics, of
course; and it would be too bad to plague you with the names of people
and parties that fill up my time. I ought to have sent you an account
of your cousin’s first party, but I was lazy, and now it is too long
ago; suffice it, that everything was just as it ought to be, in a style
that any of her connexions must have been gratified to witness, and
that her own dress and manners did her the greatest credit. My friend,
Mrs. Fraser, is mad for such a house, and it would not make _me_
miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter; she seems in high
spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord S. is very good-humoured and
pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so very ill-looking
as I did—at least, one sees many worse. He will not do by the side of
your cousin Edmund. Of the last-mentioned hero, what shall I say? If I
avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious. I will say, then,
that we have seen him two or three times, and that my friends here are
very much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance. Mrs. Fraser (no bad
judge) declares she knows but three men in town who have so good a
person, height, and air; and I must confess, when he dined here the
other day, there were none to compare with him, and we were a party of
sixteen. Luckily there is no distinction of dress nowadays to tell
tales, but—but—but Yours affectionately.”

“I had almost forgot (it was Edmund’s fault: he gets into my head more
than does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry and
myself—I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My dear
little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks.
Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor aunt
always felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which the Admiral
of course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at your service
and Henry’s, at an hour’s notice. I should like the scheme, and we
would make a little circuit, and shew you Everingham in our way, and
perhaps you would not mind passing through London, and seeing the
inside of St. George’s, Hanover Square. Only keep your cousin Edmund
from me at such a time: I should not like to be tempted. What a long
letter! one word more. Henry, I find, has some idea of going into
Norfolk again upon some business that _you_ approve; but this cannot
possibly be permitted before the middle of next week; that is, he
cannot anyhow be spared till after the 14th, for _we_ have a party that
evening. The value of a man like Henry, on such an occasion, is what
you can have no conception of; so you must take it upon my word to be
inestimable. He will see the Rushworths, which I own I am not sorry
for—having a little curiosity, and so I think has he—though he will not
acknowledge it.”

This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately,
to supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in
greater suspense than ever. The only certainty to be drawn from it was,
that nothing decisive had yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoken.
How Miss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act
without or against her meaning; whether his importance to her were
quite what it had been before the last separation; whether, if
lessened, it were likely to lessen more, or to recover itself, were
subjects for endless conjecture, and to be thought of on that day and
many days to come, without producing any conclusion. The idea that
returned the oftenest was that Miss Crawford, after proving herself
cooled and staggered by a return to London habits, would yet prove
herself in the end too much attached to him to give him up. She would
try to be more ambitious than her heart would allow. She would
hesitate, she would tease, she would condition, she would require a
great deal, but she would finally accept.

This was Fanny’s most frequent expectation. A house in town—that, she
thought, must be impossible. Yet there was no saying what Miss Crawford
might not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse. The
woman who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance! What an
unworthy attachment! To be deriving support from the commendations of
Mrs. Fraser! _She_ who had known him intimately half a year! Fanny was
ashamed of her. Those parts of the letter which related only to Mr.
Crawford and herself, touched her, in comparison, slightly. Whether Mr.
Crawford went into Norfolk before or after the 14th was certainly no
concern of hers, though, everything considered, she thought he _would_
go without delay. That Miss Crawford should endeavour to secure a
meeting between him and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her worst line of
conduct, and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped _he_ would
not be actuated by any such degrading curiosity. He acknowledged no
such inducement, and his sister ought to have given him credit for
better feelings than her own.

She was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving
this than she had been before; and for a few days was so unsettled by
it altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her usual
readings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. She could not
command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford remembered her
message to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely, that he
would write to her at all events; it would be most consistent with his
usual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it gradually
wore off, by no letters appearing in the course of three or four days
more, she was in a most restless, anxious state.

At length, a something like composure succeeded. Suspense must be
submitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her
useless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and she
resumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest
in them.

Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the early
delight in books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition
much less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for
information’s sake, she had so strong a desire of not _appearing_
ignorant, as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most
attentive, profitable, thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny’s
explanations and remarks were a most important addition to every essay,
or every chapter of history. What Fanny told her of former times dwelt
more on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and she paid her sister
the compliment of preferring her style to that of any printed author.
The early habit of reading was wanting.

Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as
history or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters, none
returned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,
a description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways of
Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and
well-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge
herself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong;
though, after a time, Susan’s very great admiration of everything said
or done in her uncle’s house, and earnest longing to go into
Northamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings
which could not be gratified.

Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder
sister; and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to
feel that when her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness
would have a material drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so
capable of being made everything good should be left in such hands,
distressed her more and more. Were _she_ likely to have a home to
invite her to, what a blessing it would be! And had it been possible
for her to return Mr. Crawford’s regard, the probability of his being
very far from objecting to such a measure would have been the greatest
increase of all her own comforts. She thought he was really
good-tempered, and could fancy his entering into a plan of that sort
most pleasantly.




CHAPTER XLIV


Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one
letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny’s
hands. As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a
minute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards
the fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the
contents—

“My Dear Fanny,—Excuse me that I have not written before. Crawford told
me that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it impossible to
write from London, and persuaded myself that you would understand my
silence. Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not have been
wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned
to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are
much weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of
you as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you
enough of her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will
not be prevented, however, from making my own communication. Our
confidences in you need not clash. I ask no questions. There is
something soothing in the idea that we have the same friend, and that
whatever unhappy differences of opinion may exist between us, we are
united in our love of you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how
things now are, and what are my present plans, if plans I can be said
to have. I have been returned since Saturday. I was three weeks in
London, and saw her (for London) very often. I had every attention from
the Frasers that could be reasonably expected. I dare say I was not
reasonable in carrying with me hopes of an intercourse at all like that
of Mansfield. It was her manner, however, rather than any unfrequency
of meeting. Had she been different when I did see her, I should have
made no complaint, but from the very first she was altered: my first
reception was so unlike what I had hoped, that I had almost resolved on
leaving London again directly. I need not particularise. You know the
weak side of her character, and may imagine the sentiments and
expressions which were torturing me. She was in high spirits, and
surrounded by those who were giving all the support of their own bad
sense to her too lively mind. I do not like Mrs. Fraser. She is a
cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely from convenience,
and though evidently unhappy in her marriage, places her disappointment
not to faults of judgment, or temper, or disproportion of age, but to
her being, after all, less affluent than many of her acquaintance,
especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway, and is the determined
supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious, provided it be only
mercenary and ambitious enough. I look upon her intimacy with those two
sisters as the greatest misfortune of her life and mine. They have been
leading her astray for years. Could she be detached from them!—and
sometimes I do not despair of it, for the affection appears to me
principally on their side. They are very fond of her; but I am sure she
does not love them as she loves you. When I think of her great
attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of her judicious, upright
conduct as a sister, she appears a very different creature, capable of
everything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too harsh
construction of a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is
the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. If I
did not believe that she had some regard for me, of course I should not
say this, but I do believe it. I am convinced that she is not without a
decided preference. I have no jealousy of any individual. It is the
influence of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous of. It
is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher than her
own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes united
could authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could better
bear to lose her because not rich enough, than because of my
profession. That would only prove her affection not equal to
sacrifices, which, in fact, I am scarcely justified in asking; and, if
I am refused, that, I think, will be the honest motive. Her prejudices,
I trust, are not so strong as they were. You have my thoughts exactly
as they arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory,
but it will not be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having once
begun, it is a pleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her
up. Connected as we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up
Mary Crawford would be to give up the society of some of those most
dear to me; to banish myself from the very houses and friends whom,
under any other distress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of
Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of
Fanny. Were it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know
how to bear it, and how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart,
and in the course of a few years—but I am writing nonsense. Were I
refused, I must bear it; and till I am, I can never cease to try for
her. This is the truth. The only question is _how_? What may be the
likeliest means? I have sometimes thought of going to London again
after Easter, and sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns
to Mansfield. Even now, she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield
in June; but June is at a great distance, and I believe I shall write
to her. I have nearly determined on explaining myself by letter. To be
at an early certainty is a material object. My present state is
miserably irksome. Considering everything, I think a letter will be
decidedly the best method of explanation. I shall be able to write much
that I could not say, and shall be giving her time for reflection
before she resolves on her answer, and I am less afraid of the result
of reflection than of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My
greatest danger would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a
distance unable to help my own cause. A letter exposes to all the evil
of consultation, and where the mind is anything short of perfect
decision, an adviser may, in an unlucky moment, lead it to do what it
may afterwards regret. I must think this matter over a little. This
long letter, full of my own concerns alone, will be enough to tire even
the friendship of a Fanny. The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs.
Fraser’s party. I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and
hear of him. There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his
own mind, and acts up to his resolutions: an inestimable quality. I
could not see him and my eldest sister in the same room without
recollecting what you once told me, and I acknowledge that they did not
meet as friends. There was marked coolness on her side. They scarcely
spoke. I saw him draw back surprised, and I was sorry that Mrs.
Rushworth should resent any former supposed slight to Miss Bertram. You
will wish to hear my opinion of Maria’s degree of comfort as a wife.
There is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well
together. I dined twice in Wimpole Street, and might have been there
oftener, but it is mortifying to be with Rushworth as a brother. Julia
seems to enjoy London exceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, but
have less here. We are not a lively party. You are very much wanted. I
miss you more than I can express. My mother desires her best love, and
hopes to hear from you soon. She talks of you almost every hour, and I
am sorry to find how many weeks more she is likely to be without you.
My father means to fetch you himself, but it will not be till after
Easter, when he has business in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I
hope, but this must not be a yearly visit. I want you at home, that I
may have your opinion about Thornton Lacey. I have little heart for
extensive improvements till I know that it will ever have a mistress. I
think I shall certainly write. It is quite settled that the Grants go
to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am not
comfortable enough to be fit for anybody; but your aunt seems to feel
out of luck that such an article of Mansfield news should fall to my
pen instead of hers.—Yours ever, my dearest Fanny.”

“I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again,” was
Fanny’s secret declaration as she finished this. “What do they bring
but disappointment and sorrow? Not till after Easter! How shall I bear
it? And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!”

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could, but
she was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas was
quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main subject
of the letter, there was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was
almost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund. “There is no
good in this delay,” said she. “Why is not it settled? He is blinded,
and nothing will open his eyes; nothing can, after having had truths
before him so long in vain. He will marry her, and be poor and
miserable. God grant that her influence do not make him cease to be
respectable!” She looked over the letter again. “‘So very fond of me!’
’tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself and her brother. Her
friends leading her astray for years! She is quite as likely to have
led _them_ astray. They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one another;
but if they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the
less likely to have been hurt, except by their flattery. ‘The only
woman in the world whom he could ever think of as a wife.’ I firmly
believe it. It is an attachment to govern his whole life. Accepted or
refused, his heart is wedded to her for ever. ‘The loss of Mary I must
consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.’ Edmund, you
do not know me. The families would never be connected if you did not
connect them! Oh! write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end
of this suspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself.”

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long
guiding Fanny’s soliloquies. She was soon more softened and sorrowful.
His warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,
touched her strongly. He was only too good to everybody. It was a
letter, in short, which she would not but have had for the world, and
which could never be valued enough. This was the end of it.

Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having much to
say, which will include a large proportion of the female world at
least, must feel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in having
such a capital piece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants
going to Bath, occur at a time when she could make no advantage of it,
and will admit that it must have been very mortifying to her to see it
fall to the share of her thankless son, and treated as concisely as
possible at the end of a long letter, instead of having it to spread
over the largest part of a page of her own. For though Lady Bertram
rather shone in the epistolary line, having early in her marriage, from
the want of other employment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas’s
being in Parliament, got into the way of making and keeping
correspondents, and formed for herself a very creditable, common-place,
amplifying style, so that a very little matter was enough for her: she
could not do entirely without any; she must have something to write
about, even to her niece; and being so soon to lose all the benefit of
Dr. Grant’s gouty symptoms and Mrs. Grant’s morning calls, it was very
hard upon her to be deprived of one of the last epistolary uses she
could put them to.

There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram’s
hour of good luck came. Within a few days from the receipt of Edmund’s
letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus—

“My Dear Fanny,—I take up my pen to communicate some very alarming
intelligence, which I make no doubt will give you much concern”.

This was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to
acquaint her with all the particulars of the Grants’ intended journey,
for the present intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for
the pen for many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness
of her eldest son, of which they had received notice by express a few
hours before.

Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where
a neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought on a fever;
and when the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by
himself at the house of one of these young men to the comforts of
sickness and solitude, and the attendance only of servants. Instead of
being soon well enough to follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his
disorder increased considerably, and it was not long before he thought
so ill of himself as to be as ready as his physician to have a letter
despatched to Mansfield.

“This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,” observed her
ladyship, after giving the substance of it, “has agitated us
exceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed
and apprehensive for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may
be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brother
immediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on
this distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for me. We shall
greatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope he will
find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might be
apprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield
shortly, which Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on
every account, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able
to bear the removal without material inconvenience or injury. As I have
little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under these
distressing circumstances, I will write again very soon.”

Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm and
genuine than her aunt’s style of writing. She felt truly for them all.
Tom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small
party remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care,
or almost every other. She could just find selfishness enough to wonder
whether Edmund _had_ written to Miss Crawford before this summons came,
but no sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate
and disinterestedly anxious. Her aunt did not neglect her: she wrote
again and again; they were receiving frequent accounts from Edmund, and
these accounts were as regularly transmitted to Fanny, in the same
diffuse style, and the same medley of trusts, hopes, and fears, all
following and producing each other at haphazard. It was a sort of
playing at being frightened. The sufferings which Lady Bertram did not
see had little power over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably
about agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually
conveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered
appearance. Then a letter which she had been previously preparing for
Fanny was finished in a different style, in the language of real
feeling and alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken. “He is just
come, my dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; and I am so shocked to see
him, that I do not know what to do. I am sure he has been very ill.
Poor Tom! I am quite grieved for him, and very much frightened, and so
is Sir Thomas; and how glad I should be if you were here to comfort me.
But Sir Thomas hopes he will be better to-morrow, and says we must
consider his journey.”

The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not soon
over. Tom’s extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and
experience those comforts of home and family which had been little
thought of in uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being
conveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on, and for a
week he was in a more alarming state than ever. They were all very
seriously frightened. Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her
niece, who might now be said to live upon letters, and pass all her
time between suffering from that of to-day and looking forward to
to-morrow’s. Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin,
her tenderness of heart made her feel that she could not spare him, and
the purity of her principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she
considered how little useful, how little self-denying his life had
(apparently) been.

Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more common
occasions. Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathise. Nobody
else could be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family
above an hundred miles off; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief
question or two, if she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and
now and then the quiet observation of, “My poor sister Bertram must be
in a great deal of trouble.”

So long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were
little more than nothing. An attachment, originally as tranquil as
their tempers, was now become a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much
for Lady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three
or four Prices might have been swept away, any or all except Fanny and
William, and Lady Bertram would have thought little about it; or
perhaps might have caught from Mrs. Norris’s lips the cant of its being
a very happy thing and a great blessing to their poor dear sister Price
to have them so well provided for.




CHAPTER XLV


At about the week’s end from his return to Mansfield, Tom’s immediate
danger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make his
mother perfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him in his
suffering, helpless state, and hearing only the best, and never
thinking beyond what she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no
aptitude at a hint, Lady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world
for a little medical imposition. The fever was subdued; the fever had
been his complaint; of course he would soon be well again. Lady Bertram
could think nothing less, and Fanny shared her aunt’s security, till
she received a few lines from Edmund, written purposely to give her a
clearer idea of his brother’s situation, and acquaint her with the
apprehensions which he and his father had imbibed from the physician
with respect to some strong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize the
frame on the departure of the fever. They judged it best that Lady
Bertram should not be harassed by alarms which, it was to be hoped,
would prove unfounded; but there was no reason why Fanny should not
know the truth. They were apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom in
a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram’s sheets of paper
could do. There was hardly any one in the house who might not have
described, from personal observation, better than herself; not one who
was not more useful at times to her son. She could do nothing but glide
in quietly and look at him; but when able to talk or be talked to, or
read to, Edmund was the companion he preferred. His aunt worried him by
her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring down his conversation
or his voice to the level of irritation and feebleness. Edmund was all
in all. Fanny would certainly believe him so at least, and must find
that her estimation of him was higher than ever when he appeared as the
attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother. There was not
only the debility of recent illness to assist: there was also, as she
now learnt, nerves much affected, spirits much depressed to calm and
raise, and her own imagination added that there must be a mind to be
properly guided.

The family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope than
fear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford; but Miss
Crawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck, and to her
selfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only
son.

Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. Edmund’s
letter had this postscript. “On the subject of my last, I had actually
begun a letter when called away by Tom’s illness, but I have now
changed my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom
is better, I shall go.”

Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely any
change, till Easter. A line occasionally added by Edmund to his
mother’s letter was enough for Fanny’s information. Tom’s amendment was
alarmingly slow.

Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully
considered, on first learning that she had no chance of leaving
Portsmouth till after it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of her
return—nothing even of the going to London, which was to precede her
return. Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no
notice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended. She supposed he
could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay to
her. The end of April was coming on; it would soon be almost three
months, instead of two, that she had been absent from them all, and
that her days had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved
them too well to hope they would thoroughly understand; and who could
yet say when there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such
as to bring a line or two of Cowper’s Tirocinium for ever before her.
“With what intense desire she wants her home,” was continually on her
tongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she could not
suppose any schoolboy’s bosom to feel more keenly.

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her
home, had been fond of saying that she was going home; the word had
been very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied to
Mansfield. _That_ was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth;
Mansfield was home. They had been long so arranged in the indulgence of
her secret meditations, and nothing was more consolatory to her than to
find her aunt using the same language: “I cannot but say I much regret
your being from home at this distressing time, so very trying to my
spirits. I trust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absent
from home so long again,” were most delightful sentences to her. Still,
however, it was her private regale. Delicacy to her parents made her
careful not to betray such a preference of her uncle’s house. It was
always: “When I go back into Northamptonshire, or when I return to
Mansfield, I shall do so and so.” For a great while it was so, but at
last the longing grew stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found
herself talking of what she should do when she went home before she was
aware. She reproached herself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards
her father and mother. She need not have been uneasy. There was no sign
of displeasure, or even of hearing her. They were perfectly free from
any jealousy of Mansfield. She was as welcome to wish herself there as
to be there.

It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not
known before what pleasures she _had_ to lose in passing March and
April in a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and
progress of vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body
and mind, she had derived from watching the advance of that season
which cannot, in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing
its increasing beauties from the earliest flowers in the warmest
divisions of her aunt’s garden, to the opening of leaves of her uncle’s
plantations, and the glory of his woods. To be losing such pleasures
was no trifle; to be losing them, because she was in the midst of
closeness and noise, to have confinement, bad air, bad smells,
substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was
infinitely worse: but even these incitements to regret were feeble,
compared with what arose from the conviction of being missed by her
best friends, and the longing to be useful to those who were wanting
her!

Could she have been at home, she might have been of service to every
creature in the house. She felt that she must have been of use to all.
To all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and were it
only in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from
the evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless,
officious companion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to
enhance her own importance, her being there would have been a general
good. She loved to fancy how she could have read to her aunt, how she
could have talked to her, and tried at once to make her feel the
blessing of what was, and prepare her mind for what might be; and how
many walks up and down stairs she might have saved her, and how many
messages she might have carried.

It astonished her that Tom’s sisters could be satisfied with remaining
in London at such a time, through an illness which had now, under
different degrees of danger, lasted several weeks. _They_ might return
to Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to
_them_, and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away. If
Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was
certainly able to quit London whenever she chose. It appeared from one
of her aunt’s letters that Julia had offered to return if wanted, but
this was all. It was evident that she would rather remain where she
was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war
with all respectable attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss
Crawford, as well as in her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had
been respectable, the most respectable part of her character; her
friendship for herself had at least been blameless. Where was either
sentiment now? It was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her,
that she had some reason to think lightly of the friendship which had
been so dwelt on. It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss
Crawford or of her other connexions in town, except through Mansfield,
and she was beginning to suppose that she might never know whether Mr.
Crawford had gone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might
never hear from his sister any more this spring, when the following
letter was received to revive old and create some new sensations—

“Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence,
and behave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest
request and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being
treated better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate
answer. I want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you,
no doubt, are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to
feel for the distress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr.
Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his
illness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a
fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was
chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him; but now it is
confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, that the symptoms
are most alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware of
it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part, that
discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let me know how far I
have been rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced I shall be to
hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I
confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine young man cut off
in the flower of his days is most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel
it dreadfully. I really am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny,
I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribed a
physician in my life. Poor young man! If he is to die, there will be
_two_ poor young men less in the world; and with a fearless face and
bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence could
fall into no hands more deserving of them. It was a foolish
precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blotted
out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains. It will be but the
loss of the Esquire after his name. With real affection, Fanny, like
mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by return of post, judge of
my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real truth, as you
have it from the fountainhead. And now, do not trouble yourself to be
ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me, they are not
only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your
conscience, whether ‘Sir Edmund’ would not do more good with all the
Bertram property than any other possible ‘Sir.’ Had the Grants been at
home I would not have troubled you, but you are now the only one I can
apply to for the truth, his sisters not being within my reach. Mrs. R.
has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham (as to be
sure you know), and is not yet returned; and Julia is with the cousins
who live near Bedford Square, but I forget their name and street. Could
I immediately apply to either, however, I should still prefer you,
because it strikes me that they have all along been so unwilling to
have their own amusements cut up, as to shut their eyes to the truth. I
suppose Mrs. R.’s Easter holidays will not last much longer; no doubt
they are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers are pleasant people; and
her husband away, she can have nothing but enjoyment. I give her credit
for promoting his going dutifully down to Bath, to fetch his mother;
but how will she and the dowager agree in one house? Henry is not at
hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not you think Edmund would
have been in town again long ago, but for this illness?—Yours ever,
Mary.”

“I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but he
brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a
decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole
Street to-day; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy
with any queer fancies because he has been spending a few days at
Richmond. He does it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody but
you. At this very moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only in
contriving the means for doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce
to yours. In proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at
Portsmouth about our conveying you home, and I join him in it with all
my soul. Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come. It will do us
all good. He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no trouble
to our friends at Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see
them all again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite
use to them; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted
there, that you cannot in conscience—conscientious as you are—keep
away, when you have the means of returning. I have not time or patience
to give half Henry’s messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and
every one is unalterable affection.”

Fanny’s disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme
reluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together,
would have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially
whether the concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herself,
individually, it was most tempting. To be finding herself, perhaps
within three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image of the
greatest felicity, but it would have been a material drawback to be
owing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at the
present moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister’s feelings, the
brother’s conduct, _her_ cold-hearted ambition, _his_ thoughtless
vanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, of Mrs.
Rushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily,
however, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite
inclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to
determine whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She
had a rule to apply to, which settled everything. Her awe of her uncle,
and her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain to
her what she had to do. She must absolutely decline the proposal. If he
wanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an early return was a
presumption which hardly anything would have seemed to justify. She
thanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative. “Her uncle, she
understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin’s illness had
continued so many weeks without her being thought at all necessary, she
must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present, and that she
should be felt an encumbrance.”

Her representation of her cousin’s state at this time was exactly
according to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would
convey to the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything
she was wishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it
seemed, under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected,
was all the conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate
himself upon. She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but
money.




CHAPTER XLVI


As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real
disappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of
Miss Crawford’s temper, of being urged again; and though no second
letter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling
when it did come.

On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little
writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste
and business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were
enough to start the probability of its being merely to give her notice
that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into
all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If
two moments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can
disperse them; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of
Mr. and Miss Crawford’s having applied to her uncle and obtained his
permission was giving her ease. This was the letter—

“A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I
write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it,
should it spread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some
mistake, and that a day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that
Henry is blameless, and in spite of a moment’s _etourderie_, thinks of
nobody but you. Say not a word of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing,
whisper nothing till I write again. I am sure it will be all hushed up,
and nothing proved but Rushworth’s folly. If they are gone, I would lay
my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But
why would not you let us come for you? I wish you may not repent
it.—Yours, etc.”

Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached
her, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange
letter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street
and Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had
just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to
excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford’s apprehension, if she heard it.
Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the
parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so
far; but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves
to Mansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it
was not likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or
at least should make any impression.

As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own
disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily
attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting
any longer in addressing herself.

It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to
fancy his affection for her something more than common; and his sister
still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some
marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some
strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to
regard a slight one.

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from Miss
Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her
thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any
human being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much
warmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her
cousin.

The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed.
She could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her
father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual,
she was so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel
that the subject was for a moment out of her head.

She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in
that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No candle
was now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She
felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun’s rays
falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still
more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different thing
in a town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare: a
stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt
that might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in
sunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud
of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked
by her father’s head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers,
where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and
saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin
blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than
even Rebecca’s hands had first produced it. Her father read his
newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual,
while the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and
Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and
considering over a particular paragraph: “What’s the name of your great
cousins in town, Fan?”

A moment’s recollection enabled her to say, “Rushworth, sir.”

“And don’t they live in Wimpole Street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, there’s the devil to pay among them, that’s all! There” (holding
out the paper to her); “much good may such fine relations do you. I
don’t know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too
much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less.
But, by G—! if she belonged to _me_, I’d give her the rope’s end as
long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too
would be the best way of preventing such things.”

Fanny read to herself that “it was with infinite concern the newspaper
had to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of
Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not
long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to
become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted
her husband’s roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr.
C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known
even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone.”

“It is a mistake, sir,” said Fanny instantly; “it must be a mistake, it
cannot be true; it must mean some other people.”

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a
resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not,
could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she
read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all,
how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to
herself.

Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.
“It might be all a lie,” he acknowledged; “but so many fine ladies were
going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for
anybody.”

“Indeed, I hope it is not true,” said Mrs. Price plaintively; “it would
be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that
carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I,
Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes’ work.”

The horror of a mind like Fanny’s, as it received the conviction of
such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must
ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of
stupefaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the
horrible evil. She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of
the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford’s letter, which she had read
so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity
with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being
_hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with
something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence,
who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would
try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could
believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see her own
mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be gone. It was not Mr. and
Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.

Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no
possibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the
night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness
to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event
was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted
from it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman
married only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even
_engaged_ to another; that other her near relation; the whole family,
both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all
intimate together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross
a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter
barbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so. _His_
unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria’s_ decided
attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it
possibility: Miss Crawford’s letter stampt it a fact.

What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views
might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss
Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such
ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the
simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were
indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother’s
sufferings, the father’s; there she paused. Julia’s, Tom’s, Edmund’s;
there a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most
horribly. Sir Thomas’s parental solicitude and high sense of honour and
decorum, Edmund’s upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine
strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to
support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her
that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing
to every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant
annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two
posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was
no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there
was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her
to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed,
scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so
low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except
Mrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the
sickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the
London postmark, and came from Edmund.

“Dear Fanny,—You know our present wretchedness. May God support you
under your share! We have been here two days, but there is nothing to
be done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last
blow—Julia’s elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left
London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would
have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy
aggravation. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is
still able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose
your returning home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother’s
sake. I shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and
hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father wishes you
to invite Susan to go with you for a few months. Settle it as you like;
say what is proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of his
kindness at such a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may
confuse it. You may imagine something of my present state. There is no
end of the evil let loose upon us. You will see me early by the
mail.—Yours, etc.”

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one as
this letter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow! She
was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely
happy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good
to her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. To be
going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with
leave to take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as
set her heart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain,
and make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of those
whose distress she thought of most. Julia’s elopement could affect her
comparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not
occupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call
herself to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous,
or it was escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing
joyful cares attending this summons to herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for
relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy,
and her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even
the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth (now fixed to the last point of
certainty), could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to
be miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her
father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got
ready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The
happiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the
black communication which must briefly precede it—the joyful consent of
her father and mother to Susan’s going with her—the general
satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the
ecstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs.
Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find
anything to hold Susan’s clothes, because Rebecca took away all the
boxes and spoilt them, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan,
now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing
nothing personally of those who had sinned, or of those who were
sorrowing—if she could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as
much as ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good
offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,
and the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep to
prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was
travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their
agitated spirits—one all happiness, the other all varying and
indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his
entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately
seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought
back all her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was
ready to sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her
instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart with only these
words, just articulate, “My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort
now!” She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his
voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and
the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. “Have you breakfasted?
When shall you be ready? Does Susan go?” were questions following each
other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When
Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own
mind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should
order the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for
their having breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had
already ate, and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round
the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad
to get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which
he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was
terrible to her.

The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same moment,
just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a
witness—but that he saw nothing—of the tranquil manner in which the
daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting
down to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,
was quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door.
Fanny’s last meal in her father’s house was in character with her
first: she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been
welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers
of Portsmouth, and how Susan’s face wore its broadest smiles, may be
easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her
bonnet, those smiles were unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund’s deep sighs often
reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened
in spite of every resolution; but Susan’s presence drove him quite into
himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never
be long supported.

Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching
his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the
first day’s journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the
subjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a
little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was
stationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a large
family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire; and
Edmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny’s looks, and
from his ignorance of the daily evils of her father’s house,
attributing an undue share of the change, attributing _all_ to the
recent event, took her hand, and said in a low, but very expressive
tone, “No wonder—you must feel it—you must suffer. How a man who had
once loved, could desert you! But _yours_—your regard was new compared
with——Fanny, think of _me_!”

The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought
them, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much
earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the
usual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts
of both sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with
her aunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel
with some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired
knowledge of what was practised here, was on the point of being called
into action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and
new gentilities, were before her; and she was meditating much upon
silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere
awake to the difference of the country since February; but when they
entered the Park her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest
sort. It was three months, full three months, since her quitting it,
and the change was from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on
lawns and plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though not
fully clothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty is
known to be at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the
sight, more yet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment, however,
was for herself alone. Edmund could not share it. She looked at him,
but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with
eyes closed, as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the
lovely scenes of home must be shut out.

It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be
enduring there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well
situated as it was, with a melancholy aspect.

By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such
impatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the
solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room
to meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said,
“Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable.”




CHAPTER XLVII


It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves
most miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria, was
really the greatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the
dearest of all; the match had been her own contriving, as she had been
wont with such pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of
it almost overpowered her.

She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to
everything that passed. The being left with her sister and nephew, and
all the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely thrown
away; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself
useful. When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been
all benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her
the smallest support or attempt at support. She had done no more for
them than they had done for each other. They had been all solitary,
helpless, and forlorn alike; and now the arrival of the others only
established her superiority in wretchedness. Her companions were
relieved, but there was no good for _her_. Edmund was almost as welcome
to his brother as Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of having
comfort from either, was but the more irritated by the sight of the
person whom, in the blindness of her anger, she could have charged as
the daemon of the piece. Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not
have happened.

Susan too was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her in more
than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder,
and an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt,
Susan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her
much time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny’s sister, to have
a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan was
more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but
ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided
with happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from
many certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more
indifference than she met with from the others.

She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the
house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so
doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut
up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at
this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own
feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother’s, and Fanny
devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more
than former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who
seemed so much to want her.

To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all
Lady Bertram’s consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear
the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could
be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The
case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but,
guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and
she saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither
endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little
of guilt and infamy.

Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a
time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other
subjects, and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but
whenever Lady Bertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only
in one light, as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace
never to be wiped off.

Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her
aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters
to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could
reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as
she wished of the circumstances attending the story.

Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with a
family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively,
agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for
to _their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His
having been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth
had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother,
and bring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without
any restraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole
Street two or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir
Thomas; a removal which her father and mother were now disposed to
attribute to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates’s account. Very soon
after the Rushworths’ return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received
a letter from an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing
and witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to
recommend Sir Thomas’s coming to London himself, and using his
influence with his daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was
already exposing her to unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr.
Rushworth uneasy.

Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating
its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by
another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost
desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.
Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband’s house: Mr. Rushworth had been in
great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr.
Harding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion.
The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He
was doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs.
Rushworth’s return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by
the influence of Mr. Rushworth’s mother, that the worst consequences
might be apprehended.

This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the
family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others
had been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what
followed the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by
that time public beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the
mother, had exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was
not to be silenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had
been together, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against
her daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the
personal disrespect with which she had herself been treated as from
sensibility for her son.

However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less
obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the
last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the
case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear
again, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed
somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle’s house, as for
a journey, on the very day of her absenting herself.

Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope
of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost
on the side of character.

_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but
one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to him.
Tom’s complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his
sister’s conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even
Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were
regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia’s elopement, the
additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its
force had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt.
She saw that it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it.
Under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but
to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its
completion, placed Julia’s feelings in a most unfavourable light, and
severely aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing,
done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was
yet as more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but
regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a
conclusion hereafter like her sister’s. Such was his opinion of the set
into which she had thrown herself.

Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in
Edmund. Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure
against herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris,
would now be done away. _She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would
have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most
material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her
uncle’s displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her
justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must
be on Edmund alone.

She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no
present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the
others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very
deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it,
as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything
but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion.
He was aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in
addition to all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or
conjectured his feelings; and, having reason to think that one
interview with Miss Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived
only increased distress, had been as anxious on that account as on
others to get him out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home
to her aunt, with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than
theirs. Fanny was not in the secret of her uncle’s feelings, Sir Thomas
not in the secret of Miss Crawford’s character. Had he been privy to
her conversation with his son, he would not have wished her to belong
to him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty.

That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit
of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same,
her own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted
to be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve
which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most
consoling; but _that_ she found was not to be. She seldom saw him:
never alone. He probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be
inferred? That his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and
bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt
to be a subject of the slightest communication. This must be his state.
He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of speech.
Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford’s name passed his lips again,
or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential intercourse as had
been.

It _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till
Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting
with her on Sunday evening—a wet Sunday evening—the very time of all
others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and
everything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who, after
hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was
impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to
be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she
would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and
certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not
fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he
entered upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the
first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was
quite convinced.

How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what
delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully
her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The
opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to
see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call;
and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview of
friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and
wretchedness which Crawford’s sister ought to have known, he had gone
to her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for
a few moments impossible to Fanny’s fears that it should be the last.
But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met
him, he said, with a serious—certainly a serious—even an agitated air;
but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had
introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. “‘I
heard you were in town,’ said she; ‘I wanted to see you. Let us talk
over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations?’
I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved.
Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then
added, ‘I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister’s expense.’ So she
began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be
repeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon
them if I could. Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of
each. She reprobated her brother’s folly in being drawn on by a woman
whom he had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he
adored; but still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a
situation, plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being
really loved by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear.
Guess what I must have felt. To hear the woman whom—no harsher name
than folly given! So voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it!
No reluctance, no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest
loathings? This is what the world does. For where, Fanny, shall we find
a woman whom nature had so richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt!”

After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate
calmness. “I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She
saw it only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want
of common discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the
whole time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power
of a servant; it was the detection, in short—oh, Fanny! it was the
detection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence
which had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give
up every dearer plan in order to fly with her.”

He stopt. “And what,” said Fanny (believing herself required to speak),
“what could you say?”

“Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned. She went
on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you,
regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a—. There she spoke
very rationally. But she has always done justice to you. ‘He has thrown
away,’ said she, ‘such a woman as he will never see again. She would
have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever.’ My dearest
Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain by this
retrospect of what might have been—but what never can be now. You do
not wish me to be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I
have done.”

No look or word was given.

“Thank God,” said he. “We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to
have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which
knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and
warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in
the midst of it she could exclaim, ‘Why would not she have him? It is
all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted
him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage,
and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other
object. He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth
again. It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in
yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.’ Could you have believed
it possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened.”

“Cruel!” said Fanny, “quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to
gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty.”

“Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel
nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil
lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there
being such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to
her to treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had
been used to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would
speak. Hers are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give
unnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot
but think that for me, for my feelings, she would—. Hers are faults of
principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind.
Perhaps it is best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not
so, however. Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing
her, rather than have to think of her as I do. I told her so.”

“Did you?”

“Yes; when I left her I told her so.”

“How long were you together?”

“Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained
now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of
it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can.” He was obliged to pause
more than once as he continued. “‘We must persuade Henry to marry her,’
said she; ‘and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut
himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must
give up. I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with
one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable
difficulty. My influence, which is not small shall all go that way; and
when once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of
respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a
certain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted,
but with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those
who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more
liberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise is,
that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by
interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any
officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry’s protection,
there will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain
with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas
trust to his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he
get his daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.’”

After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching
him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the
subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak
again. At last, “Now, Fanny,” said he, “I shall soon have done. I have
told you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak,
I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state
of mind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to
make me suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in
almost every sentence. That though I had, in the course of our
acquaintance, been often sensible of some difference in our opinions,
on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to
conceive the difference could be such as she had now proved it. That
the manner in which she treated the dreadful crime committed by her
brother and my sister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended
not to say), but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself,
giving it every reproach but the right; considering its ill
consequences only as they were to be braved or overborne by a defiance
of decency and impudence in wrong; and last of all, and above all,
recommending to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescence in the
continuance of the sin, on the chance of a marriage which, thinking as
I now thought of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought;
all this together most grievously convinced me that I had never
understood her before, and that, as far as related to mind, it had been
the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been
too apt to dwell on for many months past. That, perhaps, it was best
for me; I had less to regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings,
hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn from me now. And yet,
that I must and would confess that, could I have restored her to what
she had appeared to me before, I would infinitely prefer any increase
of the pain of parting, for the sake of carrying with me the right of
tenderness and esteem. This is what I said, the purport of it; but, as
you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly or methodically as I have
repeated it to you. She was astonished, exceedingly astonished—more
than astonished. I saw her change countenance. She turned extremely
red. I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings: a great, though short
struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but
habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a
sort of laugh, as she answered, ‘A pretty good lecture, upon my word.
Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you will soon reform
everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next,
it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists,
or as a missionary into foreign parts.’ She tried to speak carelessly,
but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in
reply, that from my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that
she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most
valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of
ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and
immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard
the door open behind me. ‘Mr. Bertram,’ said she. I looked back. ‘Mr.
Bertram,’ said she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the
conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite
in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it
was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. I have
since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go back, but I
know I was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance. And
what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived! Equally in
brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your patience, Fanny. This
has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done.”

And such was Fanny’s dependence on his words, that for five minutes she
thought they _had_ done. Then, however, it all came on again, or
something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram’s rousing
thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till that
happened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she
had attached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how
excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier.
Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in
adding to his knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what
share his brother’s state of health might be supposed to have in her
wish for a complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable
intimation. Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast
deal pleasanter to have had her more disinterested in her attachment;
but his vanity was not of a strength to fight long against reason. He
submitted to believe that Tom’s illness had influenced her, only
reserving for himself this consoling thought, that considering the many
counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly been _more_
attached to him than could have been expected, and for his sake been
more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly the same; and they were
also quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible
impression, which such a disappointment must make on his mind. Time
would undoubtedly abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a
sort of thing which he never could get entirely the better of; and as
to his ever meeting with any other woman who could—it was too
impossible to be named but with indignation. Fanny’s friendship was all
that he had to cling to.




CHAPTER XLVIII


Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects
as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault
themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.

My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of
knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything. She must have
been a happy creature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she
felt, for the distress of those around her. She had sources of delight
that must force their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was
useful, she was beloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir
Thomas came back she had every proof that could be given in his then
melancholy state of spirits, of his perfect approbation and increased
regard; and happy as all this must make her, she would still have been
happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss
Crawford.

It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was
suffering from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and
wishing for what could never be. She knew it was so, and was sorry; but
it was with a sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease,
and so much in harmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few
who might not have been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety for it.

Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his
own conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that he
ought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter’s sentiments
had been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in
authorising it; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the
expedient, and been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly
wisdom. These were reflections that required some time to soften; but
time will do almost everything; and though little comfort arose on Mrs.
Rushworth’s side for the misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be
found greater than he had supposed in his other children. Julia’s match
became a less desperate business than he had considered it at first.
She was humble, and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirous of
being really received into the family, was disposed to look up to him
and be guided. He was not very solid; but there was a hope of his
becoming less trifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and
quiet; and at any rate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather
more, and his debts much less, than he had feared, and in being
consulted and treated as the friend best worth attending to. There was
comfort also in Tom, who gradually regained his health, without
regaining the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his previous habits.
He was the better for ever for his illness. He had suffered, and he had
learned to think: two advantages that he had never known before; and
the self-reproach arising from the deplorable event in Wimpole Street,
to which he felt himself accessory by all the dangerous intimacy of his
unjustifiable theatre, made an impression on his mind which, at the age
of six-and-twenty, with no want of sense or good companions, was
durable in its happy effects. He became what he ought to be: useful to
his father, steady and quiet, and not living merely for himself.

Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place
dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his
father’s ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given
him pain before—improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and
sitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well
talked his mind into submission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.

These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought
their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost,
and in part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from
the conviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was
never to be entirely done away.

Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young
people must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had
been always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and
flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own
severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what
was wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly saw that he
had but increased the evil by teaching them to repress their spirits in
his presence so as to make their real disposition unknown to him, and
sending them for all their indulgences to a person who had been able to
attach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excess of
her praise.

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually
grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan
of education. Something must have been wanting _within_, or time would
have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active
principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught
to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which
can alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their
religion, but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be
distinguished for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object
of their youth, could have had no useful influence that way, no moral
effect on the mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had
been directed to the understanding and manners, not the disposition;
and of the necessity of self-denial and humility, he feared they had
never heard from any lips that could profit them.

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely
comprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all
the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought
up his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his
being acquainted with their character and temper.

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were
made known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed
on to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued
together till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain,
and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the
conviction rendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like
hatred, as to make them for a while each other’s punishment, and then
induce a voluntary separation.

She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his
happiness in Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving
him than that she _had_ divided them. What can exceed the misery of
such a mind in such a situation?

Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended a
marriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end
the effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised him,
and loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so. The
indignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion,
can excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did a
deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. _He_ was released from
the engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till some other pretty girl
could attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a
second, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state: if
duped, to be duped at least with good humour and good luck; while she
must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and
reproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character.

Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and
momentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment
with the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home and
countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs.
Norris’s anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from considering
_her_ residence there as the motive. She persisted in placing his
scruples to _her_ account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her
that, had there been no young woman in question, had there been no
young person of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered by the
society or hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have
offered so great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expect it to
notice her. As a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be
protected by him, and secured in every comfort, and supported by every
encouragement to do right, which their relative situations admitted;
but farther than _that_ he could not go. Maria had destroyed her own
character, and he would not, by a vain attempt to restore what never
could be restored, by affording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to
lessen its disgrace, be anywise accessory to introducing such misery in
another man’s family as he had known himself.

It ended in Mrs. Norris’s resolving to quit Mansfield and devote
herself to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed
for them in another country, remote and private, where, shut up
together with little society, on one side no affection, on the other no
judgment, it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their
mutual punishment.

Mrs. Norris’s removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary
comfort of Sir Thomas’s life. His opinion of her had been sinking from
the day of his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from
that period, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she
had been regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that
either time had done her much disservice, or that he had considerably
over-rated her sense, and wonderfully borne with her manners before. He
had felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse, as there
seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; she seemed a part of
himself that must be borne for ever. To be relieved from her,
therefore, was so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter
remembrances behind her, there might have been danger of his learning
almost to approve the evil which produced such a good.

She was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able to
attach even those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushworth’s elopement,
her temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her
everywhere tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not
even when she was gone for ever.

That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to a
favourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater
to her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less flattered
and less spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second
place. She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to
Maria. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two; her feelings,
though quick, were more controllable, and education had not given her
so very hurtful a degree of self-consequence.

She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford.
After the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was
over, she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him
again; and when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr.
Rushworth’s house became Crawford’s object, she had had the merit of
withdrawing herself from it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to
her other friends, in order to secure herself from being again too much
attracted. This had been her motive in going to her cousin’s. Mr.
Yates’s convenience had had nothing to do with it. She had been
allowing his attentions some time, but with very little idea of ever
accepting him; and had not her sister’s conduct burst forth as it did,
and her increased dread of her father and of home, on that event,
imagining its certain consequence to herself would be greater severity
and restraint, made her hastily resolve on avoiding such immediate
horrors at all risks, it is probable that Mr. Yates would never have
succeeded. She had not eloped with any worse feelings than those of
selfish alarm. It had appeared to her the only thing to be done.
Maria’s guilt had induced Julia’s folly.

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example,
indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once
it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of
happiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one
amiable woman’s affections, could he have found sufficient exultation
in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and
tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability of
success and felicity for him. His affection had already done something.
Her influence over him had already given him some influence over her.
Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would have
been obtained, especially when that marriage had taken place, which
would have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing her
first inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he have
persevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a
reward very voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from
Edmund’s marrying Mary.

Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down to
Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been
deciding his own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs.
Fraser’s party; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he
was to meet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were both
engaged, and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a
mind unused to make any sacrifice to right: he resolved to defer his
Norfolk journey, resolved that writing should answer the purpose of it,
or that its purpose was unimportant, and staid. He saw Mrs. Rushworth,
was received by her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive,
and have established apparent indifference between them for ever; but
he was mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose
smiles had been so wholly at his command: he must exert himself to
subdue so proud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny’s
account; he must get the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria
Bertram again in her treatment of himself.

In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had
soon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry, of
flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the
discretion which, though beginning in anger, might have saved them
both, he had put himself in the power of feelings on her side more
strong than he had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawing
attentions avowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his own vanity,
with as little excuse of love as possible, and without the smallest
inconstancy of mind towards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams
from a knowledge of what was passing became his first object. Secrecy
could not have been more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth’s credit than he
felt it for his own. When he returned from Richmond, he would have been
glad to see Mrs. Rushworth no more. All that followed was the result of
her imprudence; and he went off with her at last, because he could not
help it, regretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her
infinitely more when all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a
very few months had taught him, by the force of contrast, to place a
yet higher value on the sweetness of her temper, the purity of her
mind, and the excellence of her principles.

That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just
measure attend _his_ share of the offence is, we know, not one of the
barriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is
less equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look forward
to a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of
sense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small
portion of vexation and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes to
self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited
hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most
estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had
rationally as well as passionately loved.

After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the
continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood
would have been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for
some months purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the
necessity, or at least the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr.
Grant, through an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes,
succeeded to a stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion
for leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an
increase of income to answer the expenses of the change, was highly
acceptable to those who went and those who staid.

Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with
some regret from the scenes and people she had been used to; but the
same happiness of disposition must in any place, and any society,
secure her a great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer
Mary; and Mary had had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity,
ambition, love, and disappointment in the course of the last half-year,
to be in need of the true kindness of her sister’s heart, and the
rational tranquillity of her ways. They lived together; and when Dr.
Grant had brought on apoplexy and death, by three great institutionary
dinners in one week, they still lived together; for Mary, though
perfectly resolved against ever attaching herself to a younger brother
again, was long in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle
heir-apparents, who were at the command of her beauty, and her £20,000,
any one who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired at
Mansfield, whose character and manners could authorise a hope of the
domestic happiness she had there learned to estimate, or put Edmund
Bertram sufficiently out of her head.

Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not to
wait and wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed
her in them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and
observing to Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with
such another woman, before it began to strike him whether a very
different kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal
better: whether Fanny herself were not growing as dear, as important to
him in all her smiles and all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been;
and whether it might not be a possible, a hopeful undertaking to
persuade her that her warm and sisterly regard for him would be
foundation enough for wedded love.

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may be
at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable
passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as
to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that
exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and
not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and
became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.

With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard
founded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and
completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what could be more
natural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had
been doing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a
degree formed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness,
an object to him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his
own importance with her than any one else at Mansfield, what was there
now to add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to
sparkling dark ones. And being always with her, and always talking
confidentially, and his feelings exactly in that favourable state which
a recent disappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very
long in obtaining the pre-eminence.

Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to
happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or
make his progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of
opposition of taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from
dissimilarity of temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits
wanted no half-concealment, no self-deception on the present, no
reliance on future improvement. Even in the midst of his late
infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny’s mental superiority. What must
be his sense of it now, therefore? She was of course only too good for
him; but as nobody minds having what is too good for them, he was very
steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not
possible that encouragement from her should be long wanting. Timid,
anxious, doubting as she was, it was still impossible that such
tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of
success, though it remained for a later period to tell him the whole
delightful and astonishing truth. His happiness in knowing himself to
have been so long the beloved of such a heart, must have been great
enough to warrant any strength of language in which he could clothe it
to her or to himself; it must have been a delightful happiness. But
there was happiness elsewhere which no description can reach. Let no
one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the
assurance of that affection of which she has scarcely allowed herself
to entertain a hope.

Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind,
no drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas’s
wishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary
connexions, prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and
temper, and chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all
that remained to him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine
satisfaction on the more than possibility of the two young friends
finding their natural consolation in each other for all that had
occurred of disappointment to either; and the joyful consent which met
Edmund’s application, the high sense of having realised a great
acquisition in the promise of Fanny for a daughter, formed just such a
contrast with his early opinion on the subject when the poor little
girl’s coming had been first agitated, as time is for ever producing
between the plans and decisions of mortals, for their own instruction,
and their neighbours’ entertainment.

Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness
had been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality had a rich
repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her deserved
it. He might have made her childhood happier; but it had been an error
of judgment only which had given him the appearance of harshness, and
deprived him of her early love; and now, on really knowing each other,
their mutual attachment became very strong. After settling her at
Thornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort, the object of
almost every day was to see her there, or to get her away from it.

Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be
parted with willingly by _her_. No happiness of son or niece could make
her wish the marriage. But it was possible to part with her, because
Susan remained to supply her place. Susan became the stationary niece,
delighted to be so; and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of
mind, and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness
of temper, and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be
spared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as
her substitute, she was established at Mansfield, with every appearance
of equal permanency. Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves
made everything easy to her there. With quickness in understanding the
tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to
restrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all;
and after Fanny’s removal succeeded so naturally to her influence over
the hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the
most beloved of the two. In _her_ usefulness, in Fanny’s excellence, in
William’s continued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general
well-doing and success of the other members of the family, all
assisting to advance each other, and doing credit to his countenance
and aid, Sir Thomas saw repeated, and for ever repeated, reason to
rejoice in what he had done for them all, and acknowledge the
advantages of early hardship and discipline, and the consciousness of
being born to struggle and endure.

With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and
friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as
earthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and
attached to country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and
comfort; and to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of
Mansfield living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they
had been married long enough to begin to want an increase of income,
and feel their distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.

On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there,
which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able
to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon
grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as
everything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had
long been.

FINIS.