Mansfield Park

Published：2026-07-30 06:27:25 Source: best coding robots for 12 year olds under 30 dollars Author: BBQ Party Toys

MANSFIELD PARK

By Jane Austen

Contents

CHAPTER I

About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward,brain teasers for the whole family of Huntingdon, with only seven thousandpounds, 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 abaronet’s lady, with all the comforts and consequences of an handsomehouse 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 thousandpounds short of any equitable claim to it. She had two sisters to be benefitedby her elevation; and such of their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and MissFrances quite as handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict theirmarrying with almost equal advantage. But there certainly are not so many menof large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them. MissWard, at the end of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached tothe Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law, with scarcely any privatefortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse. Miss Ward’s match, indeed,when it came to the point, was not contemptible: Sir Thomas being happily ableto 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 athousand a year. But Miss Frances married, in the common phrase, to disobligeher family, and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines, without education,fortune, or connexions, did it very thoroughly. She could hardly have made amore untoward choice. Sir Thomas Bertram had interest, which, from principle aswell as pride—from a general wish of doing right, and a desire of seeingall that were connected with him in situations of respectability, he would havebeen glad to exert for the advantage of Lady Bertram’s sister; but herhusband’s profession was such as no interest could reach; and before hehad time to devise any other method of assisting them, an absolute breachbetween the sisters had taken place. It was the natural result of the conductof each party, and such as a very imprudent marriage almost always produces. Tosave herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote to her family onthe subject till actually married. Lady Bertram, who was a woman of verytranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent, would havecontented herself with merely giving up her sister, and thinking no more of thematter; but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of activity, which could not be satisfiedtill she had written a long and angry letter to Fanny, to point out the follyof her conduct, and threaten her with all its possible ill consequences. Mrs.Price, in her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer, which comprehendedeach sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very disrespectful reflectionson 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 existenceduring the eleven following years, or, at least, to make it very wonderful toSir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have it in her power to tell them, asshe now and then did, in an angry voice, that Fanny had got another child. Bythe end of eleven years, however, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherishpride or resentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her. Alarge and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active service, butnot the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very small income tosupply their wants, made her eager to regain the friends she had so carelesslysacrificed; and she addressed Lady Bertram in a letter which spoke so muchcontrition and despondence, such a superfluity of children, and such a want ofalmost 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 couldnot conceal how important she felt they might be to the future maintenance ofthe eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten years old, a finespirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world; but what could she do? Wasthere any chance of his being hereafter useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns ofhis West Indian property? No situation would be beneath him; or what did SirThomas 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. SirThomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram dispatched money andbaby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more importantadvantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was often observing tothe others that she could not get her poor sister and her family out of herhead, and that, much as they had all done for her, she seemed to be wanting todo 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 outof her great number. “What if they were among them to undertake the careof her eldest daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to require moreattention than her poor mother could possibly give? The trouble and expense ofit to them would be nothing, compared with the benevolence of theaction.” Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly. “I think we cannotdo better,” said she; “let us send for the child.”

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

“My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to thegenerosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a piece withyour general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the main as to thepropriety of doing everything one could by way of providing for a child one hadin a manner taken into one’s own hands; and I am sure I should be thelast person in the world to withhold my mite upon such an occasion. Having nochildren of my own, who should I look to in any little matter I may ever haveto bestow, but the children of my sisters?—and I am sure Mr. Norris istoo just—but you know I am a woman of few words and professions. Do notlet 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 meansof settling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of ours, SirThomas, I may say, or at least of yours, would not grow up in thisneighbourhood without many advantages. I don’t say she would be sohandsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be introducedinto the society of this country under such very favourable circumstances as,in all human probability, would get her a creditable establishment. You arethinking of your sons—but do not you know that, of all things upon earth,thatis the least likely to happen, brought up as they would be, alwaystogether like brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I never knew aninstance of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against theconnexion. Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the firsttime seven years hence, and I dare say there would be mischief. The very ideaof her having been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty andneglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys inlove with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her evento have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than asister.”

“There is a great deal of truth in what you say,” replied SirThomas, “and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in theway of a plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations ofeach. I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, andthat 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 herhereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman, if nosuch establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in expecting.”

“I thoroughly understand you,” cried Mrs. Norris, “you areeverything that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall neverdisagree on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always readyenough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never feel forthis little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your own dearchildren, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I should hatemyself 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? Mydear 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, andmake the proposal; and, as soon as matters are settled, Iwill engage toget the child to Mansfield; youshall have no trouble about it. My owntrouble, you know, I never regard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, andshe may have a bed at her cousin the saddler’s, and the child beappointed to meet her there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town bythe 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 goingup.”

Except to the attack on Nanny’s cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made anyobjection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous beingaccordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled, and thepleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The division ofgratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have been equal; for SirThomas was fully resolved to be the real and consistent patron of the selectedchild, and Mrs. Norris had not the least intention of being at any expensewhatever in her maintenance. As far as walking, talking, and contrivingreached, she was thoroughly benevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictateliberality 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; andwhat was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew into a matter of choice, asan 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 hermoney; but having no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede herfrugality, or lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income whichthey had never lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted byno real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more thanthe credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though perhapsshe might so little know herself as to walk home to the Parsonage, after thisconversation, in the happy belief of being the most liberal-minded sister andaunt in the world.

When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fullyexplained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram’s calm inquiry of “Whereshall the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?” Sir Thomas heardwith some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris’s power totake any share in the personal charge of her. He had been considering her as aparticularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable companion to anaunt 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, atleast as things then were, was quite out of the question. Poor Mr.Norris’s indifferent state of health made it an impossibility: he couldno more bear the noise of a child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should everget well of his gouty complaints, it would be a different matter: she shouldthen be glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but justnow, poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very mention ofsuch a thing she was sure would distract him.

“Then she had better come to us,” said Lady Bertram, with theutmost 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 byher, 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 veryimportant considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether shehas three girls to teach, or only two—there can be no difference. I onlywish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not one ofthose that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her, however it mayput me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away for three days. Isuppose, sister, you will put the child in the little white attic, near the oldnurseries. It will be much the best place for her, so near Miss Lee, and notfar from the girls, and close by the housemaids, who could either of them helpto dress her, you know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you wouldnot 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 suchfriends.”

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

“That is exactly what I think,” cried Mrs. Norris, “and whatI 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 wouldlearn 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,” observedSir Thomas, “as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls asthey grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my daughterstheconsciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of theircousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her rememberthat she is not a Miss Bertram. I should wish to see them very goodfriends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest degree ofarrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank,fortune, rights, and expectations will always be different. It is a point ofgreat delicacy, and you must assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly theright line of conduct.”

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

It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister invain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be fixed on, whenshe had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most thankfully, assuringthem 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 herfarther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of herbeing materially better for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thoughtchange of air might agree with many of her children.

CHAPTER II

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

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might not bemuch in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least, nothing todisgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no glow of complexion,nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy, and shrinking fromnotice; but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar, her voice was sweet, andwhen she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram receivedher 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 mostuntoward gravity of deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so muchtrouble, or speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of agood-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the two.

The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in theintroduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at leaston 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 girlswere more at a loss from being younger and in greater awe of their father, whoaddressed them on the occasion with rather an injudicious particularity. Butthey were too much used to company and praise to have anything like naturalshyness; and their confidence increasing from their cousin’s total wantof it, they were soon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock ineasy indifference.

They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the daughtersdecidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of their age, whichproduced as striking a difference between the cousins in person, as educationhad given to their address; and no one would have supposed the girls so nearlyof an age as they really were. There were in fact but two years between theyoungest 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 tolook up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norrishad been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful goodfortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good behaviour which itought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was therefore increased bythe 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-meantcondescensions 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 makeher sit on the sofa with herself and pug, and vain was even the sight of agooseberry tart towards giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow twomouthfuls before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliestfriend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed.

“This is not a very promising beginning,” said Mrs. Norris, whenFanny 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 uponher acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a littlesulkiness of temper—her poor mother had a good deal; but we must makeallowances for such a child—and I do not know that her being sorry toleave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults, it washer home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she has changed for thebetter; but then there is moderation in all things.”

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

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to affordleisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their young cousin,produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap on finding that shehad but two sashes, and had never learned French; and when they perceived herto be little struck with the duet they were so good as to play, they could dono 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 thefavourite holiday sport of the moment, making artificial flowers or wastinggold paper.

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

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

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

On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and sistersgenerally were, there was one among them who ran more in her thoughts than therest. 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; heradvocate 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 shouldmiss her very much indeed.” “But William will write to you, I daresay.” “Yes, he had promised he would, but he had told hertowrite first.” “And when shall you do it?” She hung her headand answered hesitatingly, “she did not know; she had not anypaper.”

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

“Yes, very.”

“Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we shallfind 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 tofrank.”

Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and theywent together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her paper, andruled 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 timeof her writing, to assist her with his penknife or his orthography, as eitherwere wanted; and added to these attentions, which she felt very much, akindness to her brother which delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote withhis own hand his love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea underthe seal. Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were such as she believedherself incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless wordsfully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to findher 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 doingright; and he could perceive her to be farther entitled to attention by greatsensibility of her situation, and great timidity. He had never knowingly givenher pain, but he now felt that she required more positive kindness; and withthat view endeavoured, in the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, andgave her especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria andJulia, and being as merry as possible.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” added the other; “and of the Roman emperors as low asSeverus; 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 ofdifference in memories, as well as in everything else, and therefore you mustmake allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, ifyou 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 tolearn.”

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

“To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great wantof genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know whether itis not as well that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) yourpapa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at allnecessary 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 andearly information, they should be entirely deficient in the less commonacquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In everything butdisposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what waswanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was not outwardlyaffectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of theirspirits 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 useand no beauty, thinking more of her pug than her children, but very indulgentto the latter when it did not put herself to inconvenience, guided ineverything important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by her sister. Hadshe possessed greater leisure for the service of her girls, she would probablyhave supposed it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, withproper masters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny’s being stupidat learning, “she could only say it was very unlucky, but some peoplewerestupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what elsewas to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add she saw no harm inthe poor little thing, and always found her very handy and quick in carryingmessages, and fetching what she wanted.”

Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at MansfieldPark, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her attachment to herformer home, grew up there not unhappily among her cousins. There was nopositive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though Fanny was often mortified bytheir treatment of her, she thought too lowly of her own claims to feel injuredby it.

From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in consequence ofa 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 thecountry, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parliament, with whateverincrease or diminution of comfort might arise from her absence. In the country,therefore, the Miss Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practisetheir duets, and grow tall and womanly: and their father saw them becoming inperson, manner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his anxiety.His eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already given him muchuneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing but good. Hisdaughters, he felt, while they retained the name of Bertram, must be giving itnew grace, and in quitting it, he trusted, would extend its respectablealliances; and the character of Edmund, his strong good sense and uprightnessof mind, bid most fairly for utility, honour, and happiness to himself and allhis connexions. He was to be a clergyman.

Amid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested, Sir Thomasdid not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs. Price: he assistedher liberally in the education and disposal of her sons as they became oldenough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny, though almost totally separatedfrom her family, was sensible of the truest satisfaction in hearing of anykindness towards them, or of anything at all promising in their situation orconduct. Once, and once only, in the course of many years, had she thehappiness of being with William. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed tothink of her ever going amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at homeseemed to want her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be asailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire beforehe went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their exquisite delight inbeing 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 tothe last, and the misery of the girl when he left her. Luckily the visithappened in the Christmas holidays, when she could directly look for comfort toher cousin Edmund; and he told her such charming things of what William was todo, and be hereafter, in consequence of his profession, as made her graduallyadmit that the separation might have some use. Edmund’s friendship neverfailed her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change in his kinddispositions, 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 tomake her good qualities understood, and to conquer the diffidence whichprevented their being more apparent; giving her advice, consolation, andencouragement.

Kept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not bring herforward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest importance inassisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its pleasures. He knew herto be clever, to have a quick apprehension as well as good sense, and afondness 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 hertaste, and corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her ofwhat she read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In return forsuch 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 introducedalterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the Parsonage, removedfirst to the Park, and afterwards to a small house of Sir Thomas’s in thevillage, and consoled herself for the loss of her husband by considering thatshe could do very well without him; and for her reduction of income by theevident necessity of stricter economy.

The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few yearssooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till he were oldenough for orders. But Tom’s extravagance had, previous to that event,been so great as to render a different disposal of the next presentationnecessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of theelder. There was another family living actually held for Edmund; but thoughthis circumstance had made the arrangement somewhat easier to SirThomas’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, inthe hope of its producing a better effect than anything he had yet been able tosay 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 pityyour 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 whichought 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 benefitof that sort would have been beyond his natural claims on us, and that nothingcan, in fact, be an equivalent for the certain advantage which he is nowobliged to forego through the urgency of your debts.”

Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly aspossible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he hadnot been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that his fatherhad made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and, thirdly, that the futureincumbent, 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 manof forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram’s calculations.But “no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow, and, pliedwell with good things, would soon pop off.”

He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they enteredthe 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 hershare in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris’s situation, and theimprovement in Fanny’s age, seeming not merely to do away any formerobjection to their living together, but even to give it the most decidedeligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair thanheretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to hiseldest son’s extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to berelieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her futureprovision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, hementioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of thesubject’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, andlive 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 yearswith us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But youmust come up and tack on my patterns all the same.”

The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had neverreceived kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her.

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

“Yes, I dare say you will; that’snatural enough. I supposeyou have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as anycreature 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 goodgirl.”

“And am I never to live here again?”

“Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make verylittle 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 thedifference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt withanything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him herdistress.

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

“Indeed!”

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

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

“Oh, cousin!”

“It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensiblewoman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly whereshe ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be whatyou 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 init: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel withher.”

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

“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, younever have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There isno reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. Youhave 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 knowany 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 momentof my life.”

“Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance asthe White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off insteadof only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever. Thetwo families will be meeting every day in the year. The only difference will bethat, living with your aunt, you will necessarily be brought forward as youought to be. Herethere are too many whom you can hide behind; but withheryou 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 betterfitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a temper todo a great deal for anybody she really interests herself about, and she willforce you to do justice to your natural powers.”

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

“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. Evenyourconstant little heart need not take fright at such a nominalchange. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to choosefrom, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride.”

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

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

So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it couldrender Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had not thesmallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her, on the presentoccasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To prevent its beingexpected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation which could rank as genteelamong the buildings of Mansfield parish, the White House being only just largeenough to receive herself and her servants, and allow a spare room for afriend, of which she made a very particular point. The spare rooms at theParsonage had never been wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room fora friend was now never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could saveher from being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display ofthe importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose itreally intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a certaintyby carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris—

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

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

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

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

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

“But what did he say? He could not say he wishedme 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. Weboth thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it, there isno more to be said. She is no encumbrance here.”

“Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be anycomfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best ofhusbands, 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 therank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as not to disgrace the memoryof the dear departed—what possible comfort could I have in taking such acharge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for my own sake, I would not do sounjust 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?”

“Dear Lady Bertram! what am I fit for but solitude? Now and then Ishall hope to have a friend in my little cottage (I shall always havea bed for a friend); but the most part of my future days will be spentin utter seclusion. If I can but make both ends meet, that's all I askfor.”

“I hope, sister, things are not so very bad with you neitherconsidering Sir Thomas says you will have six hundred a year.”

“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. Ihavebeena liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not beashamed 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 ourkitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House, matters must be betterlooked after. I mustlive within my income, or I shall be miserable; andI own it would give me great satisfaction to be able to do rather more, to layby 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. Itis for your children’s good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody elseto care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a little trifleamong them worth their having.”

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

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

“Oh! thatwill soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing aboutit, I know.”

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

Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to convincehim how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law’s views; and she was fromthat moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the slightest allusion toit from him. He could not but wonder at her refusing to do anything for a niecewhom 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 designedfor their family, he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the sametime that it was advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable himbetter to provide for Fanny himself.

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

The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave greatsatisfaction 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, andwould have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead of contriving togratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high wages as they did atMansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her offices. Mrs. Norris couldnot speak with any temper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter andeggs that were regularly consumed in the house. “Nobody loved plenty andhospitality more than herself; nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage,she believed, had never been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne abad character in hertime, but this was a way of going on thatshe could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out ofplace. Herstore-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. Shecould not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all the injuriesof beauty in Mrs. Grant’s being so well settled in life without beinghandsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point almost as often, thoughnot so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the other.

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

The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its utilityto his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the rest of hisfamily, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of others at theirpresent most interesting time of life. He could not think Lady Bertram quiteequal to supply his place with them, or rather, to perform what should havebeen her own; but, in Mrs. Norris’s watchful attention, and inEdmund’s judgment, he had sufficient confidence to make him go withoutfears for their conduct.

Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she was notdisturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his comfort, being oneof those persons who think nothing can be dangerous, or difficult, or fatiguingto 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 hadnever seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence was unhappily mostwelcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint; and without aiming at onegratification that would probably have been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they feltthemselves immediately at their own disposal, and to have every indulgencewithin their reach. Fanny’s relief, and her consciousness of it, werequite equal to her cousins’; but a more tender nature suggested that herfeelings 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 wasgone perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it wasa shameful insensibility.” He had said to her, moreover, on the very lastmorning, that he hoped she might see William again in the course of the ensuingwinter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield as soon as thesquadron to which he belonged should be known to be in England. “This wasso thoughtful and kind!” and would he only have smiled upon her, andcalled her “my dear Fanny,” while he said it, every former frown orcold address might have been forgotten. But he had ended his speech in a way tosink her in sad mortification, by adding, “If William does come toMansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him that the many years whichhave passed since you parted have not been spent on your side entirely withoutimprovement; though, I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in somerespects too much like his sister at ten.” She cried bitterly over thisreflection when her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with redeyes, set her down as a hypocrite.

CHAPTER IV

Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he could beonly nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished to find how verywell they did even without his father, how well Edmund could supply his placein carving, talking to the steward, writing to the attorney, settling with theservants, and equally saving her from all possible fatigue or exertion in everyparticular 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 beenindulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund participate themwhenever she could get him alone; and as she depended on being the first personmade acquainted with any fatal catastrophe, she had already arranged the mannerof breaking it to all the others, when Sir Thomas’s assurances of theirboth being alive and well made it necessary to lay by her agitation andaffectionate preparatory speeches for a while.

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

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of theneighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements a mannernaturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and obligingness, theypossessed its favour as well as its admiration. Their vanity was in such goodorder 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 theiraunt, served to strengthen them in believing they had no faults.

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

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed beingavowedly useful as her aunt’s companion when they called away the rest ofthe family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally becameeverything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party. She talked toher, listened to her, read to her; and the tranquillity of such evenings, herperfect security in such a tête-à-têtefrom any sound of unkindness, wasunspeakably welcome to a mind which had seldom known a pause in its alarms orembarrassments. As to her cousins’ gaieties, she loved to hear an accountof them, especially of the balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thoughttoo lowly of her own situation to imagine she should ever be admitted to thesame, 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 noWilliam 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; andfor some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her health as well as inher affections; for in spite of the acknowledged importance of her riding onhorse-back, no measures were taken for mounting her again,“because,” as it was observed by her aunts, “she might rideone of her cousin’s horses at any time when they did not wantthem,” and as the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every fineday, and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifice of anyreal pleasure, that time, of course, never came. They took their cheerful ridesin the fine mornings of April and May; and Fanny either sat at home the wholeday with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at the instigation of theother: Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as unnecessary for everybody as itwas unpleasant to herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day, thinkingeverybody ought to walk as much. Edmund was absent at this time, or the evilwould have been earlier remedied. When he returned, to understand how Fanny wassituated, and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but one thing tobe done; and that “Fanny must have a horse” was the resolutedeclaration with which he opposed whatever could be urged by the supineness ofhis 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 amongthe numbers belonging to the Park that would do vastly well; or that one mightbe borrowed of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then lendthem the pony he sent to the post. She could not but consider it as absolutelyunnecessary, and even improper, that Fanny should have a regular lady’shorse of her own, in the style of her cousins. She was sure Sir Thomas hadnever intended it: and she must say that, to be making such a purchase in hisabsence, and adding to the great expenses of his stable, at a time when a largepart 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 entirelyagreed with her son as to the necessity of it, and as to its being considerednecessary by his father; she only pleaded against there being any hurry; sheonly wanted him to wait till Sir Thomas’s return, and then Sir Thomasmight settle it all himself. He would be at home in September, and where wouldbe the harm of only waiting till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his mother, asevincing least regard for her niece, he could not help paying more attention towhat she said; and at length determined on a method of proceeding which wouldobviate the risk of his father’s thinking he had done too much, and atthe same time procure for Fanny the immediate means of exercise, which he couldnot bear she should be without. He had three horses of his own, but not onethat would carry a woman. Two of them were hunters; the third, a usefulroad-horse: this third he resolved to exchange for one that his cousin mightride; he knew where such a one was to be met with; and having once made up hismind, the whole business was soon completed. The new mare proved a treasure;with a very little trouble she became exactly calculated for the purpose, andFanny was then put in almost full possession of her. She had not supposedbefore that anything could ever suit her like the old grey pony; but herdelight 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 kindnessfrom which her pleasure sprung, was beyond all her words to express. Sheregarded her cousin as an example of everything good and great, as possessingworth which no one but herself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to suchgratitude from her as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentimentstowards 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 Bertramever thought about her own objection again, he might have been excused in hereyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas’s return in September, for whenSeptember came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and without any near prospect offinishing his business. Unfavourable circumstances had suddenly arisen at amoment when he was beginning to turn all his thoughts towards England; and thevery great uncertainty in which everything was then involved determined him onsending home his son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arrivedsafely, bringing an excellent account of his father’s health; but to verylittle purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas’s sendingaway his son seemed to her so like a parent’s care, under the influenceof a foreboding of evil to himself, that she could not help feeling dreadfulpresentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came on, was so terriblyhaunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of her cottage, as to beobliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room of the Park. The return ofwinter engagements, however, was not without its effect; and in the course oftheir progress, her mind became so pleasantly occupied in superintending thefortunes of her eldest niece, as tolerably to quiet her nerves. “If poorSir Thomas were fated never to return, it would be peculiarly consoling to seetheir dear Maria well married,” she very often thought; always when theywere in the company of men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction ofa young man who had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and finestplaces 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 youngman, with not more than common sense; but as there was nothing disagreeable inhis figure or address, the young lady was well pleased with her conquest. Beingnow in her twenty-first year, Maria Bertram was beginning to think matrimony aduty; and as a marriage with Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of alarger 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 mostzealous in promoting the match, by every suggestion and contrivance likely toenhance its desirableness to either party; and, among other means, by seekingan 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 indifferentroad to pay a morning visit. It was not long before a good understanding tookplace between this lady and herself. Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself verydesirous that her son should marry, and declared that of all the young ladiesshe had ever seen, Miss Bertram seemed, by her amiable qualities andaccomplishments, the best adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris accepted thecompliment, and admired the nice discernment of character which could so welldistinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and delight of themall—perfectly faultless—an angel; and, of course, so surrounded byadmirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as far as Mrs. Norris couldallow herself to decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr. Rushworth appearedprecisely the young man to deserve and attach her.

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

It was some months before Sir Thomas’s consent could be received; but, inthe meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure in theconnexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried on withoutrestraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs. Norris’stalking 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 judgeof her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her happiness should centrein a large income; nor could he refrain from often saying to himself, in Mr.Rushworth’s company—“If this man had not twelve thousand ayear, he would be a very stupid fellow.”

Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance sounquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the perfectlygood and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right sort—in thesame county, and the same interest—and his most hearty concurrence wasconveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that the marriage should nottake place before his return, which he was again looking eagerly forward to. Hewrote in April, and had strong hopes of settling everything to his entiresatisfaction, and leaving Antigua before the end of the summer.

Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just reachedher eighteenth year, when the society of the village received an addition inthe brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss Crawford, the children ofher mother by a second marriage. They were young people of fortune. The son hada 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 hadbeen soon followed by the death of their common parent, which left them to thecare of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she hadscarcely seen them since. In their uncle’s house they had found a kindhome. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else, were unitedin affection for these children, or, at least, were no farther adverse in theirfeelings than that each had their favourite, to whom they showed the greatestfondness of the two. The Admiral delighted in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted onthe girl; and it was the lady’s death which now obliged herprotegee, after some months’ further trial at her uncle’shouse, to find another home. Admiral Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, whochose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring his mistress under his ownroof; and to this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her sister’s proposal ofcoming to her, a measure quite as welcome on one side as it could be expedienton the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by this time run through the usualresources of ladies residing in the country without a family ofchildren—having more than filled her favourite sitting-room with prettyfurniture, and made a choice collection of plants and poultry—was verymuch in want of some variety at home. The arrival, therefore, of a sister whomshe had always loved, and now hoped to retain with her as long as she remainedsingle, was highly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield shouldnot satisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used to London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though theyarose principally from doubts of her sister’s style of living and tone ofsociety; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to persuade herbrother to settle with her at his own country house, that she could resolve tohazard herself among her other relations. To anything like a permanence ofabode, or limitation of society, Henry Crawford had, unluckily, a greatdislike: he could not accommodate his sister in an article of such importance;but he escorted her, with the utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and asreadily 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 sisterwithout preciseness or rusticity, a sister’s husband who looked thegentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant receivedin those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young man and woman of veryprepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was remarkably pretty; Henry, thoughnot handsome, had air and countenance; the manners of both were lively andpleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them credit for everything else. Shewas delighted with each, but Mary was her dearest object; and having never beenable to glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of beingproud of her sister’s. She had not waited her arrival to look out for asuitable match for her: she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest son of abaronet was not too good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all theelegance and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and being awarm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been three hours in the housebefore 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 thechoice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she could marrywell: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that objection could nomore be made to his person than to his situation in life. While she treated itas a joke, therefore, she did not forget to think of it seriously. The schemewas soon repeated to Henry.

“And now,” added Mrs. Grant, “I have thought of something tomake it complete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; andtherefore, 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 intoanything of the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myselfallied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have not half adozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry to marry, you musthave the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English abilities can do has beentried already. I have three very particular friends who have been all dying forhim 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 himinto marrying, is inconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can beimagined. If your Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, letthem 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 willallow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious temper, andunwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can think more highly of thematrimonial state than myself. I consider the blessing of a wife as most justlydescribed in those discreet lines of the poet—‘Heaven’slastbest gift.’”

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

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

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

“Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry ifthey 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 sidethere was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as early anintimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford’s beauty did her nodisservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome themselves to dislikeany woman for being so too, and were almost as much charmed as their brotherswith her lively dark eye, clear brown complexion, and general prettiness. Hadshe been tall, full formed, and fair, it might have been more of a trial: butas 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 absolutelyplain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with a pleasingaddress. The second meeting proved him not so very plain: he was plain, to besure, but then he had so much countenance, and his teeth were so good, and hewas so well made, that one soon forgot he was plain; and after a thirdinterview, after dining in company with him at the Parsonage, he was no longerallowed to be called so by anybody. He was, in fact, the most agreeable youngman the sisters had ever known, and they were equally delighted with him. MissBertram’s engagement made him in equity the property of Julia, of whichJulia was fully aware; and before he had been at Mansfield a week, she wasquite ready to be fallen in love with.

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

“I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister,” said he, as hereturned 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 likeJulia best.”

“Oh yes! I like Julia best.”

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

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

“I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you willlike her bestat last.”

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

“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 moreagreeable 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 itis a great match for her.”

“But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; thatis youropinion of your intimate friend. Ido not subscribe to it. I am sureMiss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in hereyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to suppose shewould 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 willbe taken in at last.”

“But I would not have him takenin; I would not have himduped; I would have it all fair and honourable.”

“Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just aswell. 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 presentcompany as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one in ahundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look where I will, Isee that it isso; and I feel that it mustbe so, when I considerthat it is, of all transactions, the one in which people expect most fromothers, 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 manywho have married in the full expectation and confidence of some one particularadvantage in the connexion, or accomplishment, or good quality in the person,who have found themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up withexactly the reverse. What is this but a take in?”

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

“Well done, sister! I honour your espritducorps.When I am a wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends ingeneral 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 wewill cure you.”

The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay. Mary wassatisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry equally ready tolengthen 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. Itdelighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedinglywell contented to have it so: a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawfordis 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 thananything which Miss Crawford’s habits made her likely to feel. Sheacknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men, that twosuch young men were not often seen together even in London, and that theirmanners, particularly those of the eldest, were very good. Hehad beenmuch in London, and had more liveliness and gallantry than Edmund, and must,therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being the eldest was another strongclaim. She had felt an early presentiment that she shouldlike theeldest best. She knew it was her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he was thesort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was of the kind tobe oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a higher stamp, for he hadeasy 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 abouther 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 placedand well screened as to deserve to be in any collection of engravings ofgentlemen’s seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be completely newfurnished—pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable manhimself—with the advantage of being tied up from much gaming at presentby a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas hereafter. It might do verywell; she believed she should accept him; and she began accordingly to interestherself 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; andas it appeared that the family did not, from his usual goings on, expect himback again for many weeks, it would bring his passion to an early proof. Muchwas said on his side to induce her to attend the races, and schemes were madefor a large party to them, with all the eagerness of inclination, but it wouldonly do to be talked of.

And Fanny, what was shedoing and thinking all this while? and what washeropinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could be lesscalled on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way, very littleattended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss Crawford’sbeauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford very plain, in spiteof her two cousins having repeatedly proved the contrary, she never mentionedhim. The notice, which she excited herself, was to this effect. “Ibegin 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 shenot? I am puzzled. She dined at the Parsonage, with the rest of you, whichseemed like being out; and yet she says so little, that I can hardlysuppose she is.”

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

“And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. Thedistinction is so broad. Manners as well as appearance are, generally speaking,so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it possible to bemistaken as to a girl’s being out or not. A girl not out has always thesame sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks very demure, and neversays a word. You may smile, but it is so, I assure you; and except that it issometimes carried a little too far, it is all very proper. Girls should bequiet and modest. The most objectionable part is, that the alteration ofmanners on being introduced into company is frequently too sudden. Theysometimes pass in such very little time from reserve to quite theopposite—to confidence! Thatis the faulty part of the presentsystem. One does not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediatelyup to every thing—and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speakthe year before. Mr. Bertram, I dare say youhave sometimes met withsuch changes.”

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

“No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I amquite in the dark. But I willquiz you with a great deal of pleasure, ifyou 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 younglady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was exactly so. The Andersons ofBaker Street. We were speaking of them the other day, you know. Edmund, youhave heard me mention Charles Anderson. The circumstance was precisely as thislady has represented it. When Anderson first introduced me to his family, abouttwo years ago, his sister was not out, and I could not get her to speakto me. I sat there an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her anda little girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away, and themother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I could hardly geta word or a look from the young lady—nothing like a civilanswer—she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an air! Idid not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then out. I met her atMrs. Holford’s, and did not recollect her. She came up to me, claimed meas an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and talked and laughed till Idid not know which way to look. I felt that I must be the jest of the room atthe 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 certainlyhave not yet got quite the right way of managing their daughters. I do not knowwhere the error lies. I do not pretend to set people right, but I do see thatthey are often wrong.”

“Those who are showing the world what female manners shouldbe,” said Mr. Bertram gallantly, “are doing a great deal to setthem right.”

“The error is plain enough,” said the less courteous Edmund;“such girls are ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from thebeginning. They are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is no morereal modesty in their behaviour beforethey appear in public thanafterwards.”

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

“Yes, thatis very inconvenient indeed,” said Mr. Bertram.“It leads one astray; one does not know what to do. The close bonnet anddemure air you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what isexpected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of them. Iwent down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last September, just after myreturn from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd—you have heard me speak ofSneyd, Edmund—his father, and mother, and sisters, were there, all new tome. When we reached Albion Place they were out; we went after them, and foundthem on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss Sneyds, with others of theiracquaintance. 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 hermanners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that I couldbe doing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both well-dressed, withveils and parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found that I had beengiving all my attention to the youngest, who was not out, and had mostexcessively offended the eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticedfor the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never forgivenme.”

“That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though I have no younger sister, Ifeel 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 beenwith her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prosper. But now I must besatisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does she dine out everywhere, as well as at my sister’s?”

“No,” replied Edmund; “I do not think she has ever been to aball. My mother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but withMrs. 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 wasprepared to find a great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly inthe meetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families; and ontheir all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she retook herchosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to feel a mostmelancholy difference in the change of masters. It would be a very flatbusiness, she was sure. In comparison with his brother, Edmund would havenothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most spiritless manner, winedrank without any smiles or agreeable trifling, and the venison cut up withoutsupplying one pleasant anecdote of any former haunch, or a single entertainingstory, about “my friend such a one.” She must try to find amusementin 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 timesince the Crawfords’ arrival. He had been visiting a friend in theneighbouring county, and that friend having recently had his grounds laid outby 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 notsaying much to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had beenalready handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the dining-parlour. MissBertram’s attention and opinion was evidently his chief aim; and thoughher deportment showed rather conscious superiority than any solicitude tooblige him, the mention of Sotherton Court, and the ideas attached to it, gaveher a feeling of complacency, which prevented her from being very ungracious.

“I wish you could see Compton,” said he; “it is the mostcomplete thing! I never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I didnot know where I was. The approach now, is one of the finest things inthe country: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I declare, when Igot back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison—quite a dismalold 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 placethat wanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do notknow what can be done with it.”

“No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,” saidMrs. Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; “but depend upon it, Sothertonwill have everyimprovement 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 helpme.”

“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 thinkI had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day.”

“Well, and if they were ten,” cried Mrs. Norris, “I amsure youneed not regard it. The expense need not be any impediment. IfI were you, I should not think of the expense. I would have everything done inthe best style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton Courtdeserves everything that taste and money can do. You have space to work uponthere, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own part, if I hadanything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I should be alwaysplanting and improving, for naturally I am excessively fond of it. It would betoo ridiculous for me to attempt anything where I am now, with my little halfacre. It would be quite a burlesque. But if I had more room, I should take aprodigious delight in improving and planting. We did a vast deal in that way atthe Parsonage: we made it quite a different place from what it was when wefirst had it. You young ones do not remember much about it, perhaps; but ifdear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements we made: and agreat deal more would have been done, but for poor Mr. Norris’s sad stateof health. He could hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, andthatdisheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and Iused to talk of. If it had not been for that, we should have carried onthe garden wall, and made the plantation to shut out the churchyard, just asDr. Grant has done. We were always doing something as it was. It was only thespring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris’s death that we put in the apricotagainst the stable wall, which is now grown such a noble tree, and getting tosuch 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 fruitshould be so little worth the trouble of gathering.”

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

“You were imposed on, ma’am,” replied Dr. Grant: “thesepotatoes have as much the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from thattree. It is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable, whichnone from my garden are.”

“The truth is, ma’am,” said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisperacross the table to Mrs. Norris, “that Dr. Grant hardly knows what thenatural taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for itis so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a remarkablylarge, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves, my cook contrivesto 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’splace is the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing beforeRepton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton.”

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

Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and triedto make out something complimentary; but, between his submission to hertaste, and his having always intended the same himself, with the superaddedobjects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies in general, and ofinsinuating that there was one only whom he was anxious to please, he grewpuzzled, 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 tosay on the subject next his heart. “Smith has not much above a hundredacres altogether in his grounds, which is little enough, and makes it moresurprising that the place can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we havea good seven hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, ifso much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two orthree fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and it opens theprospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or anybody of that sort,would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down: the avenue that leads fromthe west front to the top of the hill, you know,” turning to Miss Bertramparticularly as he spoke. But Miss Bertram thought it most becoming toreply—

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

Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite MissCrawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at him, and saidin 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 placeas 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 outof 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 ithas been altered.”

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

“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 isill 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 willbe all done extremely well.”

Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, “He is awell-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 thehands of an improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of myown choice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own blundersthan by his.”

“Youwould know what you were about, of course; but that would notsuit me. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they arebefore me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be mostthankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much beautyas he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it wascomplete.”

“It would be delightful to meto see the progress of itall,” said Fanny.

“Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education; andthe only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first favourite in theworld, has made me consider improvements inhandas the greatestof nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle, bought a cottageat Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in; and my aunt and I went downto it quite in raptures; but it being excessively pretty, it was soon foundnecessary 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 haveeverything as complete as possible in the country, shrubberies andflower-gardens, and rustic seats innumerable: but it must all be done withoutmy 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 hewas silenced, till induced by further smiles and liveliness to put the matterby 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 beenthese ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often received tothe contrary.” Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise. “Thetruth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant, we wentourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this morning weheard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and he told themiller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher’s son-in-lawleft word at the shop.”

“I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hopethere 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 thevillage. 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 avery 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 ahorse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to speak forone directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet without seeing onefarmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing another, I thought it wouldbe only ask and have, and was rather grieved that I could not give theadvantage to all. Guess my surprise, when I found that I had been asking themost unreasonable, most impossible thing in the world; had offended all thefarmers, all the labourers, all the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant’sbailiff, I believe I had better keep out of hisway; and mybrother-in-law himself, who is all kindness in general, looked rather blackupon me when he found what I had been at.”

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

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

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be soonallowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and wished for itvery 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 Idearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the player mustalways 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 harpis come: he heard so much of my misery about it. And you may say, if youplease, that I shall prepare my most plaintive airs against his return, incompassion 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 everwrite to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped. The occasion would never beforeseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would not write to eachother but upon the most urgent necessity in the world; and when obliged to takeup the pen to say that such a horse is ill, or such a relation dead, it is donein the fewest possible words. You have but one style among you. I know itperfectly. Henry, who is in every other respect exactly what a brother shouldbe, who loves me, consults me, confides in me, and will talk to me by the hourtogether, has never yet turned the page in a letter; and very often it isnothing 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, “whoseexcellence 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 silenceobliged her to relate her brother’s situation: her voice was animated inspeaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had been on; but shecould not mention the number of years that he had been absent without tears inher 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, Iconclude?”

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

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

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

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

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

“My dear Henry, have younothing to say? You have been an improveryourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place inEngland. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham, as itusedto 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 ofit,” was his answer; “but I fear there would be somedisappointment: 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 forimprovement, there was very little for me to do—too little: I should liketo 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, whichpointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done, and myown consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three months beforeEveringham was all that it is now. My plan was laid at Westminster, a littlealtered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at one-and-twenty executed. I am inclinedto envy Mr. Rushworth for having so much happiness yet before him. I have beena devourer of my own.”

“Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly,”said Julia. “Youcan 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 MissBertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support, declaringthat, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult with friends anddisinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the business into the handsof a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very ready to request the favour ofMr. Crawford’s assistance; and Mr. Crawford, after properly depreciatinghis 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 honourof coming over to Sotherton, and taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as ifreading in her two nieces’ minds their little approbation of a plan whichwas to take Mr. Crawford away, interposed with an amendment.

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

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

CHAPTER VII

“Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford now?” saidEdmund 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 ather.”

“It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play offeature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you, Fanny, asnot quite right?”

“Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did. I wasquite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been living so many years, andwho, 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; veryindecorous.”

“And very ungrateful, I think.”

“Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any claimto her gratitude; his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth of herrespect for her aunt’s memory which misleads her here. She is awkwardlycircumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be difficultto do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford, without throwing a shade onthe Admiral. I do not pretend to know which was most to blame in theirdisagreements, though the Admiral’s present conduct might incline one tothe side of his wife; but it is natural and amiable that Miss Crawford shouldacquit her aunt entirely. I do not censure her opinions; but therecertainly isimpropriety 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 herniece has been entirely brought up by her? She cannot have given her rightnotions of what was due to the Admiral.”

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

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

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

Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance of herthinking like him; though at this period, and on this subject, there began nowto be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a line of admiration of MissCrawford, which might lead him where Fanny could not follow. MissCrawford’s attractions did not lessen. The harp arrived, and rather addedto her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for she played with the greatestobligingness, with an expression and taste which were peculiarly becoming, andthere was something clever to be said at the close of every air. Edmund was atthe Parsonage every day, to be indulged with his favourite instrument: onemorning secured an invitation for the next; for the lady could not be unwillingto 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 bothplaced 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 anyman’s heart. The season, the scene, the air, were all favourable totenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour frame were not withouttheir use: it was all in harmony; and as everything will turn to account whenlove is once set going, even the sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honoursof it, were worth looking at. Without studying the business, however, orknowing what he was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of suchintercourse, to be a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady it may beadded that, without his being a man of the world or an elder brother, withoutany of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small talk, he began to beagreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she had not foreseen, and couldhardly understand it; for he was not pleasant by any common rule: he talked nononsense; he paid no compliments; his opinions were unbending, his attentionstranquil and simple. There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity, hissteadiness, his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be equal to feel, thoughnot 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 wasenough.

Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning; shewould gladly have been there too, might she have gone in uninvited andunnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that, when the eveningstroll was over, and the two families parted again, he should think it right toattend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their home, while Mr. Crawford was devotedto the ladies of the Park; but she thought it a very bad exchange; and ifEdmund were not there to mix the wine and water for her, would rather gowithout it than not. She was a little surprised that he could spend so manyhours with Miss Crawford, and not see more of the sort of fault which he hadalready observed, and of which shewas almost always reminded by asomething 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 itenough that the Admiral had since been spared; and she scrupled to point outher own remarks to him, lest it should appear like ill-nature. The first actualpain which Miss Crawford occasioned her was the consequence of an inclinationto learn to ride, which the former caught, soon after her being settled atMansfield, from the example of the young ladies at the Park, and which, whenEdmund’s acquaintance with her increased, led to his encouraging thewish, and the offer of his own quiet mare for the purpose of her firstattempts, 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:shewas not to lose a day’s exercise by it. The mare was only tobe taken down to the Parsonage half an hour before her ride were to begin; andFanny, on its being first proposed, so far from feeling slighted, was almostover-powered with gratitude that he should be asking her leave for it.

Miss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to herself, and noinconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down the mare and presided at thewhole, returned with it in excellent time, before either Fanny or the steadyold coachman, who always attended her when she rode without her cousins, wereready to set forward. The second day’s trial was not so guiltless. MissCrawford’s enjoyment of riding was such that she did not know how toleave off. Active and fearless, and though rather small, strongly made, sheseemed formed for a horsewoman; and to the pure genuine pleasure of theexercise, something was probably added in Edmund’s attendance andinstructions, and something more in the conviction of very much surpassing hersex in general by her early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fannywas ready and waiting, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not beinggone, 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 eachother; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door, she could look down thepark, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its demesnes, gently risingbeyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant’s meadow she immediately sawthe group—Edmund and Miss Crawford both on horse-back, riding side byside, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford, with two or three grooms, standingabout and looking on. A happy party it appeared to her, all interested in oneobject: cheerful beyond a doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even toher. It was a sound which did not make hercheerful; she wondered thatEdmund should forget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes from themeadow; she could not help watching all that passed. At first Miss Crawford andher companion made the circuit of the field, which was not small, at afoot’s pace; then, at herapparent suggestion, they rose into acanter; and to Fanny’s timid nature it was most astonishing to see howwell she sat. After a few minutes they stopped entirely. Edmund was close toher; he was speaking to her; he was evidently directing her management of thebridle; he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the imagination supplied whatthe eye could not reach. She must not wonder at all this; what could be morenatural than that Edmund should be making himself useful, and proving hisgood-nature by any one? She could not but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawfordmight as well have saved him the trouble; that it would have been particularlyproper and becoming in a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford,with all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knewnothing of the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund. Shebegan to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty; if shewere forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.

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

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

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

“No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assureyou,” said she, as she sprang down with his help; “I am verystrong. Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, Igive way to you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have apleasant 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 joiningthem, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another part of thepark; 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 herattendant do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford’s greatcleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been watching with an interest almostequal 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 athought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began, six yearsago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir Thomas firsthad you put on!”

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

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

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

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

“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 wheneveryou are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad tohave her a longer time—for a whole morning, in short. She has a greatdesire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her ofits fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But anymorning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you.It would be very wrong if she did. Sherides only for pleasure;youfor health.”

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

Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny’s comfort, and the ride toMansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the youngpeople but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed againin the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings onanother; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for goingsomewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; andthough 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 morningssuccessively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country,and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was allgaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to betalked of with pleasure—till the fourth day, when the happiness of one ofthe party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Juliawere invited to dine at the Parsonage, and shewas excluded. It wasmeant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr.Rushworth’s account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but itwas felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed toconceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth didnotcome, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief ofshewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, andcousin, 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, freshwith the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they foundin the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes fromher book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposedby her niece’s ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions aboutthe dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined tosay no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in theirpraise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves;but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, “But whereis Fanny? Is she gone to bed?”

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

Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a verylong 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 eveningupon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as wedo? 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 amsure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think ofother people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a youngperson to be always lolling upon a sofa.”

Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and hadtaken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from thepleasures 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 thehouse.”

“Fanny,” said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, “I amsure 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 lookstoo 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 youhave her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we allout? Evenyour mother was out to-day for above an hour.”

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

“Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?”

“Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing!Shefound it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could notwait.”

“There was no help for it, certainly,” rejoined Mrs. Norris, in arather softened voice; “but I question whether her headache might not becaught then, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standingand stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Supposeyou let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have minefilled.”

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

“What!” cried Edmund; “has she been walking as well ascutting 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, andthen 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 wasobliged to go again.”

Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, “And could nobody beemployed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma’am, it has been avery 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. Greenat that very time about your mother’s dairymaid, by herdesire,and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son, and thepoor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can justly accuseme of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I cannot do everything atonce. And as for Fanny’s just stepping down to my house for me—itis not much above a quarter of a mile—I cannot think I was unreasonableto ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day, early and late, ay, and inall 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 knockedup so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long while, and I ampersuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to walk. If she had beenriding before, I should not have asked it of her. But I thought it would ratherdo her good after being stooping among the roses; for there is nothing sorefreshing as a walk after a fatigue of that kind; and though the sun wasstrong, it was not so very hot. Between ourselves, Edmund,” noddingsignificantly at his mother, “it was cutting the roses, and dawdlingabout 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 headachethere, for the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I could bearmyself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from theflower-beds, was almost too much for me.”

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

Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry withhimself. His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything which they haddone. Nothing of this would have happened had she been properly considered; butshe had been left four days together without any choice of companions orexercise, and without any excuse for avoiding whatever her unreasonable auntsmight require. He was ashamed to think that for four days together she had nothad the power of riding, and very seriously resolved, however unwilling he mustbe to check a pleasure of Miss Crawford’s, that it should never happenagain.

Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her arrivalat the Park. The state of her spirits had probably had its share in herindisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and been struggling againstdiscontent and envy for some days past. As she leant on the sofa, to which shehad retreated that she might not be seen, the pain of her mind had been muchbeyond that in her head; and the sudden change which Edmund’s kindnesshad 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 pleasantfresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had lately been, Edmundtrusted 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 becivil and to shew her civility especially, in urging the execution of the planfor 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 earlyday was named and agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: theyoung ladies did not forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris wouldwillingly have answered for his being so, they would neither authorise theliberty 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 walkdown to the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and inquire whetherWednesday would suit him or not.

Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having been out sometime, 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 spiritsabout it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman,who thought nothing of consequence, but as it related to her own and herson’s concerns, had not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of theparty. Lady Bertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusalmade Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris’smore numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.

“The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, Iassure 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 girlsand myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that could give her awishto go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She will have a companionin Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well; and as for Edmund, as heis not here to speak for himself, I will answer for his being most happy tojoin 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 agreat drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen the younglady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet, and it was a pityshe should not see the place.”

“You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam,” criedMrs. Norris; “but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty ofseeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is quiteout 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 bewanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the invitation; andthough 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 pressedand persuaded, was not long in accepting her share of the civility. Mr.Rushworth came back from the Parsonage successful; and Edmund made hisappearance just in time to learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attendMrs. Rushworth to her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the twoother ladies.

On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to make up hermind as to whether Miss Crawford’s being of the party were desirable ornot, or whether her brother’s barouche would not be full without her. TheMiss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that the barouche would holdfour perfectly well, independent of the box, on which onemight go withhim.

“But why is it necessary,” said Edmund, “thatCrawford’s carriage, or his only, should be employed? Why is nouse to be made of my mother’s chaise? I could not, when the scheme wasfirst mentioned the other day, understand why a visit from the family were notto be made in the carriage of the family.”

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

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

“And, my dear Edmund,” added Mrs. Norris, “taking outtwocarriages when onewill do, would be trouble for nothing;and, between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this andSotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching hiscarriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas, when hecomes 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 astupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that weshall 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 begenerally thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as toone’s view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose thebarouche-box herself.”

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

“Fanny!” repeated Mrs. Norris; “my dear Edmund, there is noidea 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 hismother, “for wishing Fanny notto be of the party, but as itrelates to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, youwould not wish to keep her at home?”

“To be sure not, but I cannotdo 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. Fannyhas a great desire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She hasnot often a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma’am, you would beglad 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 couldremain—their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny couldnot go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in takingher, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over. It musthave the strangest appearance! It would be something so very unceremonious, sobordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were such apattern of good-breeding and attention, that she really did not feel equal toit. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny, and no wish of procuring herpleasure at any time; but her opposition to Edmund now, arose more frompartiality for her own scheme, because it washer own, than fromanything else. She felt that she had arranged everything extremely well, andthat any alteration must be for the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her inreply, as he did when she would give him the hearing, that she need notdistress herself on Mrs. Rushworth’s account, because he had taken theopportunity, as he walked with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Priceas one who would probably be of the party, and had directly received a verysufficient invitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submitwith a very good grace, and would only say, “Very well, very well, justas 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 stayingat 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 tooffer to stay at home herself.

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

Fanny’s gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greaterthan her pleasure. She felt Edmund’s kindness with all, and more thanall, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment, could beaware 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 inthe plan, and one that was admitted with general approbation. Mrs. Grantoffered 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 tohave it so, and the young ladies were in spirits again. Even Edmund was verythankful for an arrangement which restored him to his share of the party; andMrs. 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. Crawforddriving his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was nothing to be donebut for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take their places. The place ofall places, the envied seat, the post of honour, was unappropriated. To whosehappy lot was it to fall? While each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating howbest, and with the most appearance of obliging the others, to secure it, thematter was settled by Mrs. Grant’s saying, as she stepped from thecarriage, “As there are five of you, it will be better that one shouldsit 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, thelatter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification; and the carriage droveoff amid the good wishes of the two remaining ladies, and the barking of Pug inhis mistress’s arms.

Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had neverbeen extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy in observingall that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She was not often invitedto join in the conversation of the others, nor did she desire it. Her ownthoughts and reflections were habitually her best companions; and, in observingthe appearance of the country, the bearings of the roads, the difference ofsoil, the state of the harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, shefound entertainment that could only have been heightened by having Edmund tospeak to of what she felt. That was the only point of resemblance between herand the lady who sat by her: in everything but a value for Edmund, MissCrawford 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 roadbehind them, or when he gained on them in ascending a considerable hill, theywere united, and a “there he is” broke at the same moment from themboth, more than once.

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

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

“Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficultiesare over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth has madeit since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village. Those cottagesare really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned remarkably handsome. I amglad the church is not so close to the great house as often happens in oldplaces. The annoyance of the bells must be terrible. There is the parsonage: atidy-looking house, and I understand the clergyman and his wife are very decentpeople. Those are almshouses, built by some of the family. To the right is thesteward’s house; he is a very respectable man. Now we are coming to thelodge-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 houseis dreadful. We go down hill to it for half a mile, and it is a pity, for itwould not be an ill-looking place if it had a better approach.”

Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed MissBertram’s feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote herenjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility; and evenFanny 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 atsome pains to get a view of the house, and observing that “it was a sortof building which she could not look at but with respect,” she added,“Now, where is the avenue? The house fronts the east, I perceive. Theavenue, therefore, must be at the back of it. Mr. Rushworth talked of the westfront.”

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

Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had knownnothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion; and her spirits were inas happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish, when they drove up to thespacious stone steps before the principal entrance.

CHAPTER IX

Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the whole partywere welcomed by him with due attention. In the drawing-room they were met withequal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all the distinction witheach that she could wish. After the business of arriving was over, it was firstnecessary to eat, and the doors were thrown open to admit them through one ortwo intermediate rooms into the appointed dining-parlour, where a collation wasprepared with abundance and elegance. Much was said, and much was ate, and allwent 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 greaterdesirableness of some carriage which might convey more than two. “To bedepriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes and other judgments, mightbe an evil even beyond the loss of present pleasure.”

Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also; but this wasscarcely 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 beenthere before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was pleased to have itssize displayed, and all were glad to be doing something.

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

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

Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any other usethan 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 arequite among friends, I will take you in this way, if you will excuse me.”

They entered. Fanny’s imagination had prepared her for something granderthan a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of devotion: withnothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion of mahogany, and thecrimson 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, nothingmelancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no inscriptions, nobanners. No banners, cousin, to be ‘blown by the night wind ofheaven.’ No signs that a ‘Scottish monarch sleepsbelow.’”

“You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for howconfined 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, Isuppose, in the parish church. Thereyou must look for the banners andthe achievements.”

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

Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. “This chapel was fitted up as you seeit, in James the Second’s time. Before that period, as I understand, thepews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to think that the linings andcushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth; but this is notquite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and was formerly in constant use bothmorning 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 asmile, 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 havebeen discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is somethingin a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house, withone’s ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family assemblingregularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!”

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

“Thatis hardly Fanny’s idea of a family assembling,”said Edmund. “If the master and mistress do notattend 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 suchsubjects. Everybody likes to go their own way—to chuse their own time andmanner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint,the length of time—altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobodylikes; and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery couldhave foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women might lieanother ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger ofreprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy andenvy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of thehouse of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs.Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets—starched up into seeming piety, but with headsfull of something very different—especially if the poor chaplain were notworth looking at—and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferioreven to what they are now.”

For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at Edmund, butfelt too angry for speech; and he needed a little recollection before he couldsay, “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 attimesthe difficulty of fixing our thoughtsas 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 theprivatedevotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which aresuffered, which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collectedin 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 betried so long.”

“The mind which does not struggle against itself under onecircumstance, would find objects to distract it in the other, I believe;and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelingsthan are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to besometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but Ihave 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, “Dolook at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if theceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air ofit?”

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

Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself ina 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 alook 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 placedirectly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, andnothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant.” And she talked andlaughed 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 ofher lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of itsbeing a most happy event to her whenever it took place.

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

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

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

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

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

The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reignedin it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeasedwith her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been therelong 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 witha doubt of there being time enough. “For if,” said he, with thesort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head does not alwaysavoid, “we are toolong going over the house, we shall not havetime for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to dine atfive.”

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

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

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

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

No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to move inany plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by the plants or thepheasants, and all dispersed about in happy independence. Mr. Crawford was thefirst to move forward to examine the capabilities of that end of the house. Thelawn, bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond the first plantedarea a bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backedby iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the treesof 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 werefound 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 theirregrets and difficulties, left them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs.Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whosehappy 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 feedthe pheasants, was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the onlyone out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a stateof complete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box ascould well be imagined. The politeness which she had been brought up topractise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape; while the want of thathigher species of self-command, that just consideration of others, thatknowledge of her own heart, that principle of right, which had not formed anyessential part of her education, made her miserable under it.

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

The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in turningjoyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day behind. Aconsiderable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness, which was a plantedwood of about two acres, and though chiefly of larch and laurel, and beech cutdown, and though laid out with too much regularity, was darkness and shade, andnatural beauty, compared with the bowling-green and the terrace. They all feltthe 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 aclergyman, Mr. Bertram. This is rather a surprise to me.”

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

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

“A very praiseworthy practice,” said Edmund, “but not quiteuniversal. I am one of the exceptions, and beingone, must do somethingfor myself.”

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

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

“Neveris a black word. But yes, in the neverofconversation, which means notveryoften, I do think it.For what is to be done in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves, andin either of the other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church.A clergyman is nothing.”

“The nothingof conversation has its gradations, I hope, as wellas the never. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He mustnot head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that situationnothing which has the charge of all that is of the first importance to mankind,individually or collectively considered, temporally and eternally, which hasthe guardianship of religion and morals, and consequently of the manners whichresult from their influence. No one here can call the officenothing. Ifthe man who holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing itsjust importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what he ought not toappear.”

“Youassign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has beenused to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see much ofthis influence and importance in society, and how can it be acquired where theyare so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a week, even supposing themworth hearing, supposing the preacher to have the sense to prefer Blair’sto his own, do all that you speak of? govern the conduct and fashion themanners of a large congregation for the rest of the week? One scarcely sees aclergyman out of his pulpit.”

“Youare speaking of London, Iam speaking of the nation atlarge.”

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

“Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout thekingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is not therethat respectable people of any denomination can do most good; and it certainlyis not there that the influence of the clergy can be most felt. A fine preacheris followed and admired; but it is not in fine preaching only that a goodclergyman will be useful in his parish and his neighbourhood, where the parishand neighbourhood are of a size capable of knowing his private character, andobserving his general conduct, which in London can rarely be the case. Theclergy are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known tothe largest part only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing publicmanners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to callthem the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of refinement and courtesy,the masters of the ceremonies of life. The mannersI speak of mightrather be called conduct, perhaps, the result of good principles; theeffect, in short, of those doctrines which it is their duty to teach andrecommend; 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 MissPrice 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 intendto take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change yourmind. It is not too late. Go into the law.”

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

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

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

A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the firstinterruption by saying, “I wonder that I should be tired with onlywalking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is notdisagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while.”

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

“Thank you, but I am not at all tired.” She took it, however, asshe spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such aconnexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny. “Youscarcely touch me,” said he. “You do not make me of any use. What adifference in the weight of a woman’s arm from that of a man! At Oxford Ihave 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 walkedat 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 somuch 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 sucha very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile long in astraight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left the firstgreat path.”

“But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we sawdirectly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed byiron 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 longwood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into it; andtherefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak withincompass.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yourattentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of myown neglect. Fanny’s interest seems in safer hands with you than withme.”

“That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for thereis nothing in the course of one’s duties so fatiguing as what we havebeen doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room toanother, straining one’s eyes and one’s attention, hearing what onedoes not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generallyallowed 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 ona fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.”

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

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

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

He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she would notcompare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree of rationalconsistency could not have been more engaging, and they talked with mutualsatisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should endeavour to determine thedimensions of the wood by walking a little more about it. They would go to oneend of it, in the line they were then in—for there was a straight greenwalk along the bottom by the side of the ha-ha—and perhaps turn a littleway in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back ina few minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but thiswas not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an earnestnesswhich she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to think withpleasure of her cousin’s care, but with great regret that she was notstronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner, and listened tillall sound of them had ceased.

CHAPTER X

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

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

Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed theconversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility ofimprovements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford wasfull of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, whatever he proposed wasimmediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principalbusiness seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an originalthought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith’splace.

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 andtheir plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing of all others tobe wished, it was the best, it was the only way of proceeding with anyadvantage, in Henry Crawford’s opinion; and he directly saw a knoll nothalf a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite command of thehouse. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that gate; but thegate was locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been verynear thinking whether he should not bring the key; he was determined he wouldnever come without the key again; but still this did not remove the presentevil. They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram’s inclination forso doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth’s declaringoutright 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 fromthe house already,” said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.

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

“No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete inits style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you thetruth,” speaking rather lower, “I do not think that Ishallever see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer willhardly improve it to me.”

After a moment’s embarrassment the lady replied, “You are too mucha man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people thinkSotherton 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 goodfor me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor my memoryof the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the case with men ofthe world.”

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

“Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollectionat what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of an oldIrish 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, youknow,” smiling, “better company. I could not have hoped toentertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles’ drive.”

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

“You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very highspirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too fair tojustify 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 thatiron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and hardship. ‘Icannot get out,’ as the starling said.” As she spoke, and it waswith expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her. “Mr. Rushworthis 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 littledifficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance; I thinkit might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and could allowyourself 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 ofsight.”

“Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he willfind 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 preventit. “You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,” she cried; “youwill certainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your gown; youwill 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, mydear 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 pleasantfeelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard,astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking acircuitous, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable direction to theknoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes longer she remainedwithout sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to have the little wood allto herself. She could almost have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford hadleft it, but that it was impossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely.

She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps: somebodywas 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 ofdisappointment, cried out on seeing her, “Heyday! Where are the others? Ithought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you.”

Fanny explained.

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

“But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do waitfor 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 penanceas 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 youalways contrive to keep out of these scrapes.”

This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and let itpass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt that it would notlast, 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, andcould 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.”

“Thatis Miss Maria’s concern. I am not obliged to punishmyself for hersins. The mother I could not avoid, as long as mytiresome aunt was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I canget away from.”

And she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not attendingto Fanny’s last question of whether she had seen anything of MissCrawford 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 quiteunhappy in having to communicate what had passed. He joined her within fiveminutes after Julia’s exit; and though she made the best of the story, hewas evidently mortified and displeased in no common degree. At first hescarcely said anything; his looks only expressed his extreme surprise andvexation, and he walked to the gate and stood there, without seeming to knowwhat to do.

“They desired me to stay—my cousin Maria charged me to say that youwould 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 gonesomewhere 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.” Andshe longed to be able to say something more to the purpose.

After an interval of silence, “I think they might as well have staid forme,” 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 wenton—“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 notfive foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot eight. Ithink he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these Crawfords are noaddition 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 havebeen 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 daresay 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 keyabout him at the time.” Fanny thought she discerned in his standing therean indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another attempt, and shesaid, therefore, “It is a pity you should not join them. They expected tohave a better view of the house from that part of the park, and will bethinking how it may be improved; and nothing of that sort, you know, can besettled without you.”

She found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining acompanion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. “Well,” said he, “ifyou really think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key fornothing.” And letting himself out, he walked off without fartherceremony.

Fanny’s thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her solong 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 intoanother, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford once more caught herear; 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 hadbeen across a portion of the park into the very avenue which Fanny had beenhoping the whole morning to reach at last, and had been sitting down under oneof the trees. This was their history. It was evident that they had beenspending their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of theirabsence. Fanny’s best consolation was in being assured that Edmund hadwished 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 awaywith the pain of having been left a whole hour, when he had talked of only afew minutes, nor to banish the sort of curiosity she felt to know what they hadbeen conversing about all that time; and the result of the whole was to herdisappointment and depression, as they prepared by general agreement to returnto 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 theend of an hour and a half from their leaving the house. Mrs. Norris had beentoo well employed to move faster. Whatever cross-accidents had occurred tointercept the pleasures of her nieces, she had found a morning of completeenjoyment; for the housekeeper, after a great many courtesies on the subject ofpheasants, had taken her to the dairy, told her all about their cows, and givenher the receipt for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia’s leaving themthey had been met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most satisfactoryacquaintance, 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, inreturn, had shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants, and actuallypresented her with a very curious specimen of heath.

On this rencontrethey all returned to the house together, there tolounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and QuarterlyReviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of dinner. It was latebefore the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came in, and their ramble didnot appear to have been more than partially agreeable, or at all productive ofanything useful with regard to the object of the day. By their own accountsthey had been all walking after each other, and the junction which had takenplace at last seemed, to Fanny’s observation, to have been as much toolate for re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly had been for determining onany alteration. She felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth, that herswas not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was gloom on the faceof each. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and she thought thathe was taking particular pains, during dinner, to do away any little resentmentof the other two, and restore general good-humour.

Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles’ drive homeallowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sitting down to table, itwas a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came to the door, andMrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained a few pheasants’ eggsand a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made abundance of civil speechesto 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, unlessshe is afraid of the evening air in so exposed a seat.” The request hadnot been foreseen, but was very graciously received, and Julia’s day waslikely to end almost as well as it began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind tosomething different, and was a little disappointed; but her conviction of beingreally the one preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr.Rushworth’s parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly betterpleased 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,” saidMrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. “Nothing but pleasure frombeginning to end! I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to your auntBertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day’samusement you have had!”

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

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

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

“Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautifulpheasants’ eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me: she wouldnot take a denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me, as sheunderstood 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 thefirst spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my own houseand borrow a coop; and it will be a great delight to me in my lonely hours toattend 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 asthe serenity of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris ceased speaking, itwas altogether a silent drive to those within. Their spirits were in generalexhausted; 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 Bertramsmuch more agreeable feelings than were derived from the letters from Antigua,which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was much pleasanter to think ofHenry Crawford than of their father; and to think of their father in Englandagain within a certain period, which these letters obliged them to do, was amost unwelcome exercise.

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

Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought ahusband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness wouldunite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness should depend. Itwas a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to throw a mist over it, andhope when the mist cleared away she should see something else. It would hardlybe earlyin November, there were generally delays, a bad passage orsomething; that favouring somethingwhich everybody who shutstheir eyes while they look, or their understandings while they reason, feelsthe comfort of. It would probably be the middle of November at least; themiddle 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 hisdaughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have foundconsolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the breast of anotheryoung lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her brother to spend the eveningat Mansfield Park, heard the good news; and though seeming to have no concernin the affair beyond politeness, and to have vented all her feelings in a quietcongratulation, heard it with an attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norrisgave 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 lookingout on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth, and HenryCrawford were all busy with candles at the pianoforte, she suddenly revived itby turning round towards the group, and saying, “How happy Mr. Rushworthlooks! 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, butincluding so many dangers.”

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

“Yes.”

“Don’t be affronted,” said she, laughing, “but it doesput me in mind of some of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing greatexploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safereturn.”

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

“Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than whatevery 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’smarrying.”

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

“Which you suppose has biassed me?”

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

“Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would affirmmyself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a provision for meprobably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it should. There was nonatural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no reason why a man shouldmake a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a competence early inlife. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not have been influenced myself in awrong way, and I am sure my father was too conscientious to have allowed it. Ihave 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 ageneral to be in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobodywonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve thembest, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made, tothe trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing nothingall 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 beingagreeable, which make men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing to do but beslovenly and selfish—read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrelwith his wife. His curate does all the work, and the business of his own lifeis to dine.”

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

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

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

“Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of theAntwerp,” was a tender apostrophe of Fanny’s, very much to thepurpose 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 pushme so hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of seeingwhat 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 isreally a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar and clever, and oftenpreaches good sermons, and is very respectable, Isee him to be anindolent, selfish bonvivant, who must have his palate consultedin everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of any one; andwho, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellentwife. To own the truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening bya disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. Mypoor sister was forced to stay and bear it.”

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

“No,” replied Fanny, “but we need not give up his professionfor all that; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would havetaken a—not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy orarmy, have had a great many more people under his command than he has now, Ithink more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor or soldier than as aclergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that whatever there may be to wishotherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater danger of becoming worse ina more active and worldly profession, where he would have had less time andobligation—where he might have escaped that knowledge of himself, thefrequency, at least, of that knowledge which it is impossible he shouldescape as he is now. A man—a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be inthe habit of teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twiceevery 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 nodoubt that he oftener endeavours to restrain himself than he would if he hadbeen anything but a clergyman.”

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

“I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny,” said Edmundaffectionately, “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 deservepraise than to hear it”; when, being earnestly invited by the MissBertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving Edmundlooking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues, from herobliging 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! andhow readily she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them themoment she is asked. What a pity,” he added, after an instant’sreflection, “that she should have been in such hands!”

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the windowwith 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 contrastof the deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. “Here’sharmony!” said she; “here’s repose! Here’s what mayleave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt todescribe! Here’s what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart torapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could beneither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be lessof both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people werecarried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene.”

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

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

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

“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 anystar-gazing.”

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

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

CHAPTER XII

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

It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it was; and sofar from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even want to attract himbeyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty required: his lengthenedabsence from Mansfield, without anything but pleasure in view, and his own willto consult, made it perfectly clear that he did not care about her; and hisindifference was so much more than equalled by her own, that were he now tostep forth the owner of Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he wasto 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 ofSeptember. He went for a fortnight—a fortnight of such dullness to theMiss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their guard, and made evenJulia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the absolute necessity ofdistrusting his attentions, and wishing him not to return; and a fortnight ofsufficient leisure, in the intervals of shooting and sleeping, to haveconvinced the gentleman that he ought to keep longer away, had he been more inthe habit of examining his own motives, and of reflecting to what theindulgence of his idle vanity was tending; but, thoughtless and selfish fromprosperity and bad example, he would not look beyond the present moment. Thesisters, handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his satedmind; and finding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures ofMansfield, he gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was welcomedthither 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 repeateddetails of his day’s sport, good or bad, his boast of his dogs, hisjealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their qualifications, and his zealafter poachers, subjects which will not find their way to female feelingswithout 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 ofmissing him much more. Each sister believed herself the favourite. Julia mightbe justified in so doing by the hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit whatshe wished, and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself. Everything returnedinto the same channel as before his absence; his manners being to each soanimated and agreeable as to lose no ground with either, and just stoppingshort of the consistence, the steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth whichmight excite general notice.

Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but sincethe day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with either sisterwithout observation, and seldom without wonder or censure; and had herconfidence in her own judgment been equal to her exercise of it in every otherrespect, had she been sure that she was seeing clearly, and judging candidly,she would probably have made some important communications to her usualconfidant. As it was, however, she only hazarded a hint, and the hint was lost.“I am rather surprised,” said she, “that Mr. Crawford shouldcome back again so soon, after being here so long before, full seven weeks; forI had understood he was so very fond of change and moving about, that I thoughtsomething 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 daresay it gives his sister pleasure. She does not like his unsettledhabits.”

“What a favourite he is with my cousins!”

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

“If Miss Bertram were not engaged,” said Fanny cautiously, “Icould 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 hasquite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or intimate friend ofthe woman he is really thinking of more than the woman herself. Crawford hastoo much sense to stay here if he found himself in any danger from Maria; and Iam not at all afraid for her, after such a proof as she has given that herfeelings are not strong.”

Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think differently infuture; but with all that submission to Edmund could do, and all the help ofthe coinciding looks and hints which she occasionally noticed in some of theothers, and which seemed to say that Julia was Mr. Crawford’s choice, sheknew not always what to think. She was privy, one evening, to the hopes of heraunt Norris on the subject, as well as to her feelings, and the feelings ofMrs. Rushworth, on a point of some similarity, and could not help wondering asshe listened; and glad would she have been not to be obliged to listen, for itwas while all the other young people were dancing, and she sitting, mostunwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing for the re-entrance ofher elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a partner then depended. It wasFanny’s first ball, though without the preparation or splendour of many ayoung lady’s first ball, being the thought only of the afternoon, builton the late acquisition of a violin player in the servants’ hall, and thepossibility of raising five couple with the help of Mrs. Grant and a newintimate 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 quitegrieved 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 twoabove-mentioned ladies was forced on her—

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

“Yes, ma’am, indeed,” replied the other, with a statelysimper, “there will be some satisfaction in looking on now, and Ithink it was rather a pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folksin their situation should be excused complying with the common forms. I wondermy son did not propose it.”

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

Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with pleasure, andshe 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 lookedbefore, Fanny could not recollect, for she had been dancing with Edmundherself, and had not thought about her.

Mrs. Norris continued, “It is quite delightful, ma’am, to see youngpeople so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I cannot butthink of dear Sir Thomas’s delight. And what do you say, ma’am, tothe chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good example, and suchthings 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 theyhave. 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 amongfriends. But I have very little doubt it willbe. He is growingextremely particular in his attentions.”

Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all suspended for atime, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though feeling it would be agreat honour to be asked by him, she thought it must happen. He came towardstheir 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 opinionof 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 beenunreasonable in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took anewspaper from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, “Ifyou want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you.” With more than equalcivility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. “I am glad ofit,” said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaperagain, “for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people cankeep it up so long. They had need be allin love, to find any amusementin such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may see theyare 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 ofthem. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor,” making a slyface as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving, however, to beclose at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of expression and subjectnecessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at.“A strange business this in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? Ialways come to you to know what I am to think of public matters.”

“My dear Tom,” cried his aunt soon afterwards, “as you arenot 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 theproposal, added in a whisper, “We want to make a table for Mrs.Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot verywell spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I andDr. Grant will just do; and though weplay but half-crowns, you know,you may bet half-guineas with him.”

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

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

“A pretty modest request upon my word,” he indignantly exclaimed asthey walked away. “To want to nail me to a card-table for the next twohours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that pokingold woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good auntwould 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. Thatiswhat I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than anything, tohave the pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same timeaddressed 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 outof it. It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in herhead, nothing can stop her.”

CHAPTER XIII

The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend himbeyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of a lord witha tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably have thought hisintroduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr. Bertram’sacquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten daystogether in the same society, and the friendship, if friendship it might becalled, had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates’s being invited totake Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by his promising to come; andhe did come rather earlier than had been expected, in consequence of the suddenbreaking-up of a large party assembled for gaiety at the house of anotherfriend, which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings ofdisappointment, and with his head full of acting, for it had been a theatricalparty; and the play in which he had borne a part was within two days ofrepresentation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of thefamily had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so nearhappiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the privatetheatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, inCornwall, which would of course have immortalised the whole party for at leasta twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose it all, was an injury to be keenlyfelt, and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre,with its arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failingsubject, and to boast of the past his only consolation.

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting sostrong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest of hishearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it was allbewitching, 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 triflingpart,” said he, “and not at all to my taste, and such a one as Icertainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no difficulties.Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters worthplaying before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered toresign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry forhimthat he should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equalto the Baron—a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after thefirst ten minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but Iwasresolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal toFrederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas itwas certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henrysuch a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. OurAgatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And uponthe whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully.”

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

“It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowagercould not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help wishing thatthe news could have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted. It wasbut three days; and being only a grandmother, and all happening two hundredmiles off, I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, Iknow; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men inEngland, 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 toact My Grandmother by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort him;and perhaps, between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungsin the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make youamends,Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to beour manager.”

This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for theinclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than in him whowas now master of the house; and who, having so much leisure as to make almostany novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of lively talents andcomic taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty of acting. The thoughtreturned again and again. “Oh for the Ecclesford theatre and scenery totry 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, “Icould be fool enough at this moment to undertake any character that ever waswritten, from Shylock or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in hisscarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be anything or everything; asif I could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy inthe English language. Let us be doing something. Be it only half a play, anact, a scene; what should prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure,”looking towards the Miss Bertrams; “and for a theatre, what signifies atheatre? We shall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house mightsuffice.”

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

“Oh, quite enough,” cried Mr. Yates, “with only just a sidewing 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 amusementamong 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 mustrather adopt Mr. Crawford’s views, and make the performance, notthe theatre, our object. Many parts of our best plays are independent ofscenery.”

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

“Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable,” said Julia. “Nobodyloves a play better than you do, or can have gone much farther to seeone.”

“True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would hardlywalk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who havenot been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have all thedisadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through.”

After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was discussedwith unabated eagerness, every one’s inclination increasing by thediscussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and though nothingwas settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy, and his sisters andHenry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the world could be easier than tofind a piece which would please them all, the resolution to act something orother seemed so decided as to make Edmund quite uncomfortable. He wasdetermined to prevent it, if possible, though his mother, who equally heard theconversation 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, returningfrom them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was standing thoughtfully by thefire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at a little distance, and Fanny closebeside her arranging her work, thus began as he entered—“Such ahorribly vile billiard-table as ours is not to be met with, I believe, aboveground. I can stand it no longer, and I think, I may say, that nothing shallever tempt me to it again; but one good thing I have just ascertained: it isthe very room for a theatre, precisely the shape and length for it; and thedoors at the farther end, communicating with each other, as they may be made todo in five minutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father’s room, isthe very thing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for it; and myfather’s room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to join thebilliard-room on purpose.”

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

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

“I think it would be very wrong. In a generallight, privatetheatricals are open to some objections, but as weare circumstanced, Imust think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious to attemptanything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling on my father’saccount, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant danger; and it wouldbe imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose situation is a very delicateone, considering everything, extremely delicate.”

“You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three timesa week till my father’s return, and invite all the country. But it is notto be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little amusement amongourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our powers in something new. Wewant no audience, no publicity. We may be trusted, I think, in chusing someplay most perfectly unexceptionable; and I can conceive no greater harm ordanger to any of us in conversing in the elegant written language of somerespectable author than in chattering in words of our own. I have no fears andno scruples. And as to my father’s being absent, it is so far from anobjection, that I consider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of hisreturn must be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the meansof amusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks, Ishall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will he. It is averyanxious period for her.”

As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk back inone 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 fewdifficulties of her work for her.

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

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

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

“Oh dear, no, ma’am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund,” hecontinued, returning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as LadyBertram began to nod again, “but thisI willmaintain, thatwe shall be doing no harm.”

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

“And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise oftalent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for anythingof 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 overthe dead body of Julius Caesar, and to be’dand not tobe’d, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am sure,mynamewasNorval, every evening of my lifethrough one Christmas holidays.”

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

“I know all that,” said Tom, displeased. “I know my father aswell as you do; and I’ll take care that his daughters do nothing todistress him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I’ll take care of therest 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 atheatre ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with myfather’s house in his absence which could not be justified.”

“For everything of that nature I will be answerable,” said Tom, ina decided tone. “His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great aninterest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to suchalterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, orunlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a weekwithout playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose he wouldobject to our sitting more in this room, and less in the breakfast-room, thanwe did before he went away, or to my sister’s pianoforte being moved fromone side of the room to the other. Absolute nonsense!”

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

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

“No, as to acting myself,” said Edmund, “thatIabsolutely protest against.”

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

Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feelingthroughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest somecomfort, “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 willfind 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 mysisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself, I shalllet things take their course, without attempting it through her. Familysquabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better do anything than bealtogether by the ears.”

His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next morning, werequite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to his representation,quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as Tom. Their mother had noobjection to the plan, and they were not in the least afraid of theirfather’s disapprobation. There could be no harm in what had been done inso 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 aplan like theirs, comprehending only brothers and sisters and intimate friends,and which would never be heard of beyond themselves. Julia didseeminclined to admit that Maria’s situation might require particular cautionand delicacy—but that could not extend to her—she was atliberty; and Maria evidently considered her engagement as only raising her somuch more above restraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to consulteither father or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was still urging thesubject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage, callingout, “No want of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram. No want ofunderstrappers: my sister desires her love, and hopes to be admitted into thecompany, and will be happy to take the part of any old duenna or tameconfidante, that you may not like to do yourselves.”

Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, “What say you now? Can we bewrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?” And Edmund, silenced, was obligedto acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry fascination to themind 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 wasmistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She started no difficultiesthat were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest nephew and niece, whowere all-powerful with her; and as the whole arrangement was to bring verylittle expense to anybody, and none at all to herself, as she foresaw in it allthe comforts of hurry, bustle, and importance, and derived the immediateadvantage of fancying herself obliged to leave her own house, where she hadbeen living a month at her own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, thatevery hour might be spent in their service, she was, in fact, exceedinglydelighted with the project.

CHAPTER XIV

Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business offinding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and thecarpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had suggested andremoved at least two sets of difficulties, and having made the necessity of anenlargement of plan and expense fully evident, was already at work, while aplay was still to seek. Other preparations were also in hand. An enormous rollof 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), andwas actually forming into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play waswanting; and as two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund beganalmost to hope that none might ever be found.

There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people to bepleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a need that theplay should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there did seem as littlechance 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; onthe comic, Tom Bertram, not quitealone, because it was evident thatMary 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 piececontaining very few characters in the whole, but every character first-rate,and three principal women. All the best plays were run over in vain. NeitherHamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presentedanything that could satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School forScandal, Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successivelydismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that did notsupply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other it was acontinual repetition of, “Oh no, thatwill never do! Let us haveno ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman’s partin the play. Anything but that, my dear Tom. It would be impossible tofill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a part. Nothing butbuffoonery from beginning to end. Thatmight do, perhaps, but for thelow parts. If I mustgive my opinion, I have always thought it the mostinsipid play in the English language. Ido 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 wouldend. For her own gratification she could have wished that something might beacted, for she had never seen even half a play, but everything of higherconsequence was against it.

“This will never do,” said Tom Bertram at last. “We arewasting time most abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, sothat something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too manymust not frighten us. We must doublethem. We must descend a little. Ifa part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything of it. Fromthis moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you chuse to give me, so asit 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 onlywhether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and veryearnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others that therewere 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, andturning it over, suddenly exclaimed—“Lovers’ Vows! And whyshould not Lovers’ Vows do for usas well as for the Ravenshaws?How came it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would doexactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates andCrawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else wants it; atrifling part, but the sort of thing I should not dislike, and, as I saidbefore, 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 ofindecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had beenproposed 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 grudgedevery rant of Lord Ravenshaw’s, and been forced to re-rant it all in hisown room. The storm through Baron Wildenheim was the height of his theatricalambition; 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 dohim justice, however, he did not resolve to appropriate it; for rememberingthat there was some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed anequal willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either. WhicheverMr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a short parley ofcompliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the interest of an Agatha in thequestion, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr. Yates that this was apoint in which height and figure ought to be considered, and that hisbeing the tallest, seemed to fit him peculiarly for the Baron. She wasacknowledged 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 doanything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to bescrupulous on Miss Crawford’s account.

“This is not behaving well by the absent,” said she. “Hereare not women enough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here isnothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford.”

Mr. Crawford desired thatmight not be thought of: he was very sure hissister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that she would notallow herself to be considered in the present case. But this was immediatelyopposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of Amelia to be in every respectthe property of Miss Crawford, if she would accept it. “It falls asnaturally, as necessarily to her,” said he, “as Agatha does to oneor other of my sisters. It can be no sacrifice on their side, for it is highlycomic.”

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

“I must entreat Miss JuliaBertram,” said he, “not toengage in the part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. Youmust not, indeed you must not” (turning to her). “I could not standyour countenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have hadtogether would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his knapsack wouldbe obliged to run away.”

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the matterto Julia’s feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed the injuryto 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 wasunderstood; and before Julia could command herself enough to speak, her brothergave his weight against her too, by saying, “Oh yes! Maria must beAgatha. Maria will be the best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she preferstragedy, 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 walkstoo quick, and speaks too quick, and would not keep her countenance. She hadbetter 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 ladyrelieves 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 youtalking of? The most trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merestcommonplace; not a tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is aninsult to propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We allagreed 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 appreciatethe talents of your company a little better.”

“Why, as to that, my good friend, till I and my company havereally acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement toJulia. 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 satisfiedwith the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have more credit inmaking something of it; and if she is so desperately bent against everythinghumorous, let her take Cottager’s speeches instead of Cottager’swife’s, and so change the parts all through; heis solemn andpathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference in the play, and as forCottager himself, when he has got his wife’s speeches, Iwouldundertake him with all my heart.”

“With all your partiality for Cottager’s wife,” said HenryCrawford, “it will be impossible to make anything of it fit for yoursister, and we must not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must notallowher to accept the part. She must not be left to her owncomplaisance. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character moredifficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia is themost difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great powers, greatnicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity without extravagance. I haveseen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reachof almost every actress by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeling whichthey have not. It requires a gentlewoman—a Julia Bertram. You willundertake 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 brotheragain interposed with Miss Crawford’s better claim.

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

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.“You must oblige us,” said he, “indeed you must. When youhave studied the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may beyour choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses you. Youwill be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will not refuseto 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 tosoothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous affront? Shedistrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He was, perhaps, but attreacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously at her sister; Maria’scountenance was to decide it: if she were vexed and alarmed—but Marialooked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia well knew that on this groundMaria 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 notkeeping your countenance when I come in with a basket ofprovisions—though one might have supposed—but it is only as Agathathat I was to be so overpowering!” She stopped—Henry Crawfordlooked rather foolish, and as if he did not know what to say. Tom Bertram beganagain—

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

“Do not be afraid of mywanting the character,” cried Julia,with angry quickness: “I am notto be Agatha, and I am sure I willdo nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the mostdisgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert, unnatural,impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and this is comedy inits worst form.” And so saying, she walked hastily out of the room,leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting small compassion in anyexcept Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of the whole, and who could notthink of her as under the agitations of jealousywithout great pity.

A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon returned tobusiness and Lovers’ Vows, and was eagerly looking over the play, withMr. Yates’s help, to ascertain what scenery would benecessary—while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in anunder-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, “I am sure Iwould give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shallprobably do it very ill, I feel persuaded shewould 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 TomBertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in the room nowbeginning to be called theTheatre, and Miss Bertram’sresolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia to MissCrawford; and Fanny remained alone.

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

CHAPTER XV

Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after MissBertram’s return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and anothercharacter 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 directhim; 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 mightbe to act together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning overthe leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindlytook his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted beingshortened; 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 ownappearance 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, knewanything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room before dinner, thebuzz 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 dressand a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, byway 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 heardthis speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.

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

“Yes,” cried Mr. Yates. “After all our debatings anddifficulties, we find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well,nothing so unexceptionable, as Lovers’ Vows. The wonder is that it shouldnot have been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we haveall the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to haveanything of a model! We have cast almost every part.”

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

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, “I take the part whichLady Ravenshaw was to have done, and” (with a bolder eye) “MissCrawford 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 hismother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great vexation.

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

Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called out of theroom to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being accompanied by Mr.Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediatelytook the opportunity of saying, “I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what Ifeel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but Imust now, my dear Maria, tell you, that I think it exceedingly unfit forprivate representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot butsuppose you willwhen you have read it carefully over. Read only thefirst 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’sjudgment, Iam convinced.”

“We see things very differently,” cried Maria. “I amperfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very fewomissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothingobjectionable in it; and Iam not the onlyyoung woman you findwho thinks it very fit for private representation.”

“I am sorry for it,” was his answer; “but in this matter itis youwho are to lead. Youmust set the example. If others haveblundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacyis. In all points of decorum yourconduct must be law to the rest of theparty.”

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

“Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let yourconduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feelyourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidencethan you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quiteenough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will begiven 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 mydinner.—To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time.”

“I am convinced, madam,” said Edmund, preventing Fanny, “thatSir 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 inour situations—that sheneed not be so scrupulous as Imight feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; Icannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be sodisappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shallnever 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 thepreparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure thatwould be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, ifthere is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can beeasily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is toact too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when thecarpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day’s work about thoseside-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their workvery 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 amof someuse, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There shouldalways be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tellTom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about mein the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but DickJackson making up to the servants’ hall-door with two bits of deal boardin his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced tosend him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them twobits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all thismeant, for the servants’ dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment overour heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are veryencroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all theycan), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, youknow, who ought to be ashamed of himself), ‘I’lltake theboards 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 Ibelieve I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of comingmarauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness—so goodas 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 Edmundfound 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, forEdmund’s disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he would nothave owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford’s animating support, thoughtthe subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeableto Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on any topic than that of hisregret at her secession from their company; and Mr. Rushworth, having only hisown part and his own dress in his head, had soon talked away all that could besaid of either.

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

“Well, how do you go on?” and “What have you settled?”and “Oh! we can do nothing without you,” followed the firstsalutations; and Henry Crawford was soon seated with the other three at thetable, while his sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasantattention was complimenting her. “I must really congratulate yourladyship,” said she, “on the play being chosen; for though you haveborne it with exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noiseand difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be infinitelymore thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you joy, madam, as wellas 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. Hisbeing only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat with theparty round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to the party roundthe table; and standing by them, seemed to interest herself in theirarrangements till, as if struck by a sudden recollection, she exclaimed,“My good friends, you are most composedly at work upon these cottages andalehouses, inside and out; but pray let me know my fate in the meanwhile. Whois to be Anhalt? What gentleman among you am I to have the pleasure of makinglove to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your brothershould take the part,” said Mr. Yates, in alow voice. “Do not you think he would?”

“Ishall not ask him,” replied Tom, in a cold, determinedmanner.

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

“They do not want me at all,” said she, seating herself. “Ionly 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 itpracticable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?”

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

“Ishould have no objection,” she replied; “for thoughI should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, thatis, if everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but asthey do not chuse to hear your advice at thattable”(looking round), “it certainly will not be taken.”

Edmund said no more.

“If anypart could tempt youto act, I suppose it would beAnhalt,” observed the lady archly, after a short pause; “for he isa clergyman, you know.”

“Thatcircumstance would by no means tempt me,” he replied,“for I should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. Itmust 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 whowould wish to represent it on the stage.”

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

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

Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of employing herin 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 yourpresentservices. We shall only want you in our play. You must beCottager’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 giveme the world. No, indeed, I cannot act.”

“Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frightenyou: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen speechesaltogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say; so youmay 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 tolearn.”

“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 tofeel 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 wewill teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall beCottager, I’ll put you in and push you about, and you will do it verywell, I’ll answer for it.”

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

“Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You’ll do it very well. Everyallowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must get abrown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a fewwrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and youwill 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 distressfullyat Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate hisbrother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty hadno effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said before; and it was notmerely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, andMr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle ormore ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; andbefore she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thusaddressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible—“What a pieceof work here is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such adifficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort—so kind asthey are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more ofthe matter, I entreat.”

“Do not urge her, madam,” said Edmund. “It is not fair tourge her in this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse forherself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safelytrusted. 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 notdo 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 withastonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginningto shew themselves, immediately said, with some keenness, “I do not likemy situation: this placeis too hot for me,” and moved away herchair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying to her, in akind, low whisper, as she placed herself, “Never mind, my dear MissPrice, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and teasing, but do not letus mind them”; and with pointed attention continued to talk to her andendeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits herself. By alook at her brother she prevented any farther entreaty from the theatricalboard, and the really good feelings by which she was almost purely governedwere rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund’sfavour.

Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her for herpresent kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work, and wishingshecould work as well, and begging for the pattern, and supposing Fannywas now preparing for her appearance, as of course she would come outwhen her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if she hadheard lately from her brother at sea, and said that she had quite a curiosityto see him, and imagined him a very fine young man, and advised Fanny to gethis picture drawn before he went to sea again—she could not helpadmitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or help listening, and answeringwith more animation than she had intended.

The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford’sattention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram’s telling her, withinfinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to undertakethe part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most anxiously tryingto 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,” headded. “We have but to speak the word; we may pick and chuse. I couldname, at this moment, at least six young men within six miles of us, who arewild to be admitted into our company, and there are one or two that would notdisgrace us: I should not be afraid to trust either of the Olivers or CharlesMaddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is asgentlemanlike a man as you will see anywhere, so I will take my horse earlyto-morrow morning and ride over to Stoke, and settle with one of them.”

While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in fullexpectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this: socontrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing. After amoment’s thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, “As far as I amconcerned, 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 mysister’s one day, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking young man. Iremember him. Let himbe applied to, if you please, for it will be lessunpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger.”

Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going to himearly 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 atEdmund, that “the Mansfield theatricals would enliven the wholeneighbourhood exceedingly,” Edmund still held his peace, and shewed hisfeelings only by a determined gravity.

“I am not very sanguine as to our play,” said Miss Crawford, in anundervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; “and I can tell Mr. Maddoxthat I shall shorten some of hisspeeches, and a great many of myown, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable, and byno means what I expected.”

CHAPTER XVI

It was not in Miss Crawford’s power to talk Fanny into any realforgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, she went to bedfull of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack from hercousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her spirits sinking under heraunt’s unkind reflection and reproach. To be called into notice in such amanner, 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 havethe charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint atthe dependence of her situation, had been too distressing at the time to makethe remembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with the superaddeddread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the subject. MissCrawford had protected her only for the time; and if she were applied to againamong themselves with all the authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria werecapable of, and Edmund perhaps away, what should she do? She fell asleep beforeshe could answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awokethe next morning. The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping-roomever since her first entering the family, proving incompetent to suggest anyreply, she had recourse, as soon as she was dressed, to another apartment morespacious and more meet for walking about in and thinking, and of which she hadnow 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 therethey had read and written, and talked and laughed, till within the last threeyears, when she had quitted them. The room had then become useless, and forsome time was quite deserted, except by Fanny, when she visited her plants, orwanted one of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from thedeficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber above: butgradually, as her value for the comforts of it increased, she had added to herpossessions, and spent more of her time there; and having nothing to opposeher, had so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it was nowgenerally admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had been called ever sinceMaria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered Fanny’s, almost asdecidedly as the white attic: the smallness of the one making the use of theother so evidently reasonable that the Miss Bertrams, with every superiority intheir own apartments which their own sense of superiority could demand, wereentirely approving it; and Mrs. Norris, having stipulated for there never beinga fire in it on Fanny’s account, was tolerably resigned to her having theuse of what nobody else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spokeof 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 manyan early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind asFanny’s; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to bedriven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in her hoursof leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything unpleasant below, andfind 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 firsthour of her commanding a shilling—her writing-desk, and her works ofcharity and ingenuity, were all within her reach; or if indisposed foremployment, if nothing but musing would do, she could scarcely see an object inthat room which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it.Everything was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a friend; and though there hadbeen sometimes much of suffering to her; though her motives had often beenmisunderstood, her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued;though she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almostevery recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt Bertramhad spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what was yet morefrequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her friend: he hadsupported her cause or explained her meaning, he had told her not to cry, orhad given her some proof of affection which made her tears delightful; and thewhole was now so blended together, so harmonised by distance, that every formeraffliction had its charm. The room was most dear to her, and she would not havechanged its furniture for the handsomest in the house, though what had beenoriginally plain had suffered all the ill-usage of children; and its greatestelegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia’s work, too illdone for the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in a rage fortransparencies, for the three lower panes of one window, where Tintern Abbeyheld its station between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, acollection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being anywhere else, overthe mantelpiece, and by their side, and pinned against the wall, a small sketchof 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 anagitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund’s profile shecould catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums she mightinhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more than fears of herown perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel undecided as to what sheoughttodo; and as she walked round the room her doubtswere increasing. Was she rightin refusing what was so warmly asked, sostrongly wished for—what might be so essential to a scheme on which someof those to whom she owed the greatest complaisance had set their hearts? Wasit not ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself? And wouldEdmund’s judgment, would his persuasion of Sir Thomas’sdisapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify her in a determined denial inspite of all the rest? It would be so horrible to her to act that she wasinclined to suspect the truth and purity of her own scruples; and as she lookedaround her, the claims of her cousins to being obliged were strengthened by thesight of present upon present that she had received from them. The tablebetween the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which hadbeen given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewilderedas to the amount of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced. A tapat the door roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her way to herduty, and her gentle “Come in” was answered by the appearance ofone, before whom all her doubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened atthe 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, highlyas it gratified her.

“Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This actingscheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a play asthey could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask the help of ayoung man very slightly known to any of us. This is the end of all the privacyand propriety which was talked about at first. I know no harm of CharlesMaddox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his being admittedamong us in this manner is highly objectionable, the morethanintimacy—the familiarity. I cannot think of it with any patience; and itdoes appear to me an evil of such magnitude as must, ifpossible,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 onething to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhaltmyself. 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 canlike being driven into the appearanceof such inconsistency. After beingknown to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the faceof my joining them now, when they are exceeding their first plan inevery 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, ofthe unpleasantness that mustarise from a young man’s beingreceived in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at allhours, and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. Tothink only of the licence which every rehearsal must tend to create. It is allvery bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford’s place, Fanny. Consider what itwould be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be felt for, becauseshe evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of what she said to you lastnight to understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as sheprobably engaged in the part with different expectations—perhaps withoutconsidering the subject enough to know what was likely to be—it would beungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought tobe 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 todo what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think will bedisagreeable 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 Iact. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave it. But ifI can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business, of limitingthe exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be well repaid. As I amnow, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I have offended them, and they willnot hear me; but when I have put them in good-humour by this concession, I amnot without hopes of persuading them to confine the representation within amuch smaller circle than they are now in the high road for. This will be amaterial 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 measureby 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 withoutit.”

“Oh, cousin!”

“If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet—But itis absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the countryin quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act—no matter whom: the lookof a gentleman is to be enough. I thought youwould have entered moreinto 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 wasvery kind, indeed, and I am glad to have herspared”...

She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in themiddle, 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 notinterrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy tillI had spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head hasbeen full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly making itless than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him directly and get itover, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high good-humour at theprospect of acting the fool together with such unanimity. You, in themeanwhile, will be taking a trip into China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartneygo on?”—opening a volume on the table and then taking up someothers. “And here are Crabbe’s Tales, and the Idler, at hand torelieve you, if you tire of your great book. I admire your little establishmentexceedingly; and as soon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all thisnonsense of acting, and sit comfortably down to your table. But do not stayhere to be cold.”

He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He hadtold her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most unwelcomenews; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After all hisobjections—objections so just and so public! After all that she had heardhim 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 everyspeech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, whichhad previously distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened tohim, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed themup. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousinsmight attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if atlast 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 overEdmund’s discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was most delightful.There was no longer anything to disturb them in their darling project, and theycongratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness to which theyattributed 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 toact, and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmundhad descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, andthey were both as much the better as the happier for the descent.

They behaved very well, however, to himon the occasion, betraying noexultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed to thinkit as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if theyhad been forced into admitting him against their inclination. “To have itquite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished. Astranger among them would have been the destruction of all theircomfort”; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope asto the limitation of the audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of themoment, to promise anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs.Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt’slast 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 usnow. 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 feltherself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning tofail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this change inEdmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered with such aninstantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have butone effect on him. “He was certainly right in respecting such feelings;he was glad he had determined on it.” And the morning wore away insatisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it toFanny: at the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usualgood-humour, agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; andthis was all that occurred to gladden herheart during the day; and eventhis, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawfordto whom she was obliged—it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were toexcite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of with a glowof admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here. Hermind had been never farther from peace. She could not feel that she had donewrong herself, but she was disquieted in every other way. Her heart and herjudgment were equally against Edmund’s decision: she could not acquit hisunsteadiness, and his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full ofjealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed aninsult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly answercalmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; eachhad their object of interest, their part, their dress, their favourite scene,their friends and confederates: all were finding employment in consultationsand comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She alonewas 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 ofthe East room, without being seen or missed. She could almost think anythingwould have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: hergood-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were considered; herpresence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended, and praised; and Fannywas at first in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted. Butreflection brought better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitledto respect, which could never have belonged to her; and that, had shereceived even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a schemewhich, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.

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

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

For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had endeavoured todo it away by the usual attack of gallantry and compliment, but he had notcared enough about it to persevere against a few repulses; and becoming soontoo busy with his play to have time for more than one flirtation, he grewindifferent to the quarrel, or rather thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietlyputting an end to what might ere long have raised expectations in more thanMrs. Grant. She was not pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, andsitting by disregarded; but as it was not a matter which really involved herhappiness, as Henry must be the best judge of his own, and as he did assureher, with a most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had aserious thought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as tothe elder sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquillity by too muchadmiration there, and then gladly take her share in anything that broughtcheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so particularlypromote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.

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

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

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

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

“I dare say he willbe in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes,I dare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to put himin 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 SirThomas’s return.”

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

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

“If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as theplay 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 atime.”

Julia didsuffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, andthough 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 ahigh spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment of a dear, thoughirrational hope, with a strong sense of ill-usage. Her heart was sore andangry, and she was capable only of angry consolations. The sister with whom shewas used to be on easy terms was now become her greatest enemy: they werealienated from each other; and Julia was not superior to the hope of somedistressing end to the attentions which were still carrying on there, somepunishment to Maria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towardsMr. Rushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion, toprevent their being very good friends while their interests were the same, thesisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or principle enough tomake them merciful or just, to give them honour or compassion. Maria felt hertriumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of Julia; and Julia could never seeMaria distinguished by Henry Crawford without trusting that it would createjealousy, and bring a public disturbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward fellowshipbetween them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took no liberties. Theywere 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 theirown minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was engrossed by the concerns ofhis theatre, and saw nothing that did not immediately relate to it. Edmund,between his theatrical and his real part, between Miss Crawford’s claimsand his own conduct, between love and consistency, was equally unobservant; andMrs. Norris was too busy in contriving and directing the general little mattersof the company, superintending their various dresses with economical expedient,for which nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half acrown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for watching thebehaviour, 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, Fannyfound, before many days were past, that it was not all uninterrupted enjoymentto the party themselves, and that she had not to witness the continuance ofsuch unanimity and delight as had been almost too much for her at first.Everybody began to have their vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely againsthisjudgment, a scene-painter arrived from town, and was at work, muchto the increase of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of theirproceedings; and his brother, instead of being really guided by him as to theprivacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every family whocame in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter’s slowprogress, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He had learned hispart—all his parts, for he took every trifling one that could be unitedwith the Butler, and began to be impatient to be acting; and every day thusunemployed was tending to increase his sense of the insignificance of all hisparts together, and make him more ready to regret that some other play had notbeen chosen.

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only listener athand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of most of them. Sheknew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dreadfully; that Mr. Yateswas disappointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom Bertram spoke so quick he would beunintelligible; that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund wasbehindhand with his part, and that it was misery to have anything to do withMr. Rushworth, who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also,that poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him:hiscomplaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to hereye was her cousin Maria’s avoidance of him, and so needlessly often therehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she had soonall the terror of other complaints from him. So far from being allsatisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring something they hadnot, and giving occasion of discontent to the others. Everybody had a parteither too long or too short; nobody would attend as they ought; nobody wouldremember on which side they were to come in; nobody but the complainer wouldobserve any directions.

Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the play asany of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure to hertocreep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the first act, in spite ofthe 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 betheir only audience; and sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator, wasoften very useful. As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably thebest 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 shemust admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there were not many whodiffered from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness andinsipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her with ablack look, and said, “Do you think there is anything so very fine in allthis? 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, fromincreasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to remove; and the chances ofMr. Rushworth’s ever attaining to the knowledge of his two-and-fortyspeeches became much less. As to his ever making anything tolerableofthem, nobody had the smallest idea of that except his mother; she,indeed, regretted that his part was not more considerable, and deferred comingover to Mansfield till they were forward enough in their rehearsal tocomprehend all his scenes; but the others aspired at nothing beyond hisremembering the catchword, and the first line of his speech, and being able tofollow 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 anddirections in her power, trying to make an artificial memory for him, andlearning every word of his part herself, but without his being much theforwarder.

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

There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her helpwas wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as the rest, wasevident by the manner in which she claimed it—“Come, Fanny,”she cried, “these are fine times for you, but you must not be alwayswalking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at your ease, inthis 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; andnow I think you may give me your help in putting it together. There are butthree seams; you may do them in a trice. It would be lucky for me if I hadnothing but the executive part to do. Youare 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 herkinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf—

“One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny shouldbe delighted: it isall 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, Imeanto look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny? you havenever told me.”

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

“I believe,” said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, “there will bethree acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunityof 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 verylittle sense in a play without a curtain—and I am much mistaken if you donot find it draw up into very handsome festoons.”

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

She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wonderingemotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstancealmost too interesting. She did not believethey had yet rehearsed it,even in private.

The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny’sconsideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligentlyunder her aunt’s directions, but her diligence and her silence concealeda very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her workto the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemedit, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was justproposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding thesight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the twoladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, andshe worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of anhour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of MissCrawford.

“Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg yourpardon, 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 hercivilities, 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 littlewhile, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought mybook, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be soobliged!I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund—byourselves—against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if hewere, I do not think I could go through it with him, till I havehardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will be sogood, won’t you?”

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

“Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?” continued MissCrawford, opening her book. “Here it is. I did not think much of it atfirst—but, upon my word. There, look at thatspeech, andthat, and that. How am I ever to look him in the face and saysuch things? Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all thedifference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy youhim, andget on by degrees. You havea look of hissometimes.”

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

“Noneof it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Nowfor it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the frontof 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 feetagainst when they are learning a lesson. What would your governess and youruncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could Sir Thomas look in upon usjust 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, andthe theatre is engaged of course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha andFrederick. If theyare not perfect, I shallbe surprised. By thebye, I looked in upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly atone of the times when they were trying notto embrace, and Mr. Rushworthwas with me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off aswell as I could, by whispering to him, ‘We shall have an excellentAgatha; there is something so maternalin her manner, so completelymaternalin her voice and countenance.’ Was not that well done ofme? He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy.”

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

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three on thisunexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same business that hadbrought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely to be more thanmomentary in them. He too had his book, and was seeking Fanny, to askher to rehearse with him, and help him to prepare for the evening, withoutknowing Miss Crawford to be in the house; and great was the joy and animationof being thus thrown together, of comparing schemes, and sympathising in praiseof Fanny’s kind offices.

Shecould not equal them in their warmth. Herspirits sank underthe glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to both tohave any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now rehearsetogether. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady, not veryunwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was wanted only to promptand observe them. She was invested, indeed, with the office of judge andcritic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all their faults;but from doing so every feeling within her shrank—she could not, wouldnot, dared not attempt it: had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, herconscience must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation. Shebelieved herself to feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safetyin particulars. To prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimesmorethan enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. Inwatching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit ofEdmund’s manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as hewanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was thankedand pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they would eversurmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praiseto the compliments each was giving the other; and when again alone and able torecall 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 avery 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 placein the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to return for thatpurpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every one concerned was lookingforward with eagerness. There seemed a general diffusion of cheerfulness on theoccasion. Tom was enjoying such an advance towards the end; Edmund was inspirits from the morning’s rehearsal, and little vexations seemedeverywhere 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 havinglighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only thearrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.

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

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

Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant’s non-attendance was sad indeed. Herpleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable amongst them;but nowshe was absolutely necessary. They could not act, they could notrehearse with any satisfaction without her. The comfort of the whole eveningwas destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair. After apause of perplexity, some eyes began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice ortwo to say, “If Miss Price would be so good as to readthepart.” She was immediately surrounded by supplications; everybody askedit; even Edmund said, “Do, Fanny, if it is not verydisagreeableto you.”

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

“You have only to readthe part,” said Henry Crawford, withrenewed 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 Edmundrepeated 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 wasleft to the tremors of a most palpitating heart, while the others prepared tobegin.

They didbegin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to bestruck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded someway when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it, witha face all aghast, exclaimed, “My father is come! He is in the hall atthis moment.”

CHAPTER XIX

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

Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness had beensuspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the moment of herappearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to Agatha’snarrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon as she could noticethis, and see that, in spite of the shock of her words, he still kept hisstation and retained her sister’s hand, her wounded heart swelled againwith injury, and looking as red as she had been white before, she turned out ofthe room, saying, “Ineed not be afraid of appearing beforehim.”

Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers steppedforward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few words betweenthem were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of opinion: they must goto the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them with the same intent, just thenthe stoutest of the three; for the very circumstance which had driven Juliaaway was to her the sweetest support. Henry Crawford’s retaining her handat such a moment, a moment of such peculiar proof and importance, was worthages of doubt and anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most seriousdetermination, and was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off,utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth’s repeated question of, “Shall Igo 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 toanswer the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay hisrespects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with delightedhaste.

Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quiteoverlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on SirThomas’s affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classingherself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a littlebreathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was endured by therest, by the right of a disposition which not even innocence could keep fromsuffering. She was nearly fainting: all her former habitual dread of her unclewas returning, and with it compassion for him and for almost every one of theparty on the development before him, with solicitude on Edmund’s accountindescribable. She had found a seat, where in excessive trembling she wasenduring all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer under anyrestraint, were giving vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over suchan unlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without mercywishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or were still inAntigua.

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from betterunderstanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that mustensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt the totaldestruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr. Yates consideredit only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for the evening, and could evensuggest the possibility of the rehearsal being renewed after tea, when thebustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over, and he might be at leisure to beamused by it. The Crawfords laughed at the idea; and having soon agreed on thepropriety of their walking quietly home and leaving the family to themselves,proposed Mr. Yates’s accompanying them and spending the evening at theParsonage. But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much ofparental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive that anything of thekind was necessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, “he preferredremaining where he was, that he might pay his respects to the old gentlemanhandsomely since he wascome; and besides, he did not think it would befair by the others to have everybody run away.”

Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she staidlonger behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was settled, andbeing commissioned with the brother and sister’s apology, saw thempreparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the dreadful duty ofappearing before her uncle.

Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after pausing amoment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which the outside of nodoor had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in desperation, and thelights of the drawing-room, and all the collected family, were before her. Asshe entered, her own name caught her ear. Sir Thomas was at that moment lookinground him, and saying, “But where is Fanny? Why do not I see my littleFanny?”—and on perceiving her, came forward with a kindness whichastonished and penetrated her, calling her his dear Fanny, kissing heraffectionately, 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 hadnever been so kind, so verykind to her in his life. His manner seemedchanged, his voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had beenawful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light andlooked at her again—inquired particularly after her health, and then,correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for her appearance spokesufficiently on that point. A fine blush having succeeded the previous palenessof her face, he was justified in his belief of her equal improvement in healthand beauty. He inquired next after her family, especially William: and hiskindness altogether was such as made her reproach herself for loving him solittle, and thinking his return a misfortune; and when, on having courage tolift her eyes to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had theburnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling wasincreased, and she was miserable in considering how much unsuspected vexationwas probably ready to burst on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion now seatedthemselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the talker; and thedelight of his sensations in being again in his own house, in the centre of hisfamily, after such a separation, made him communicative and chatty in a veryunusual 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. Hisbusiness in Antigua had latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directlyfrom Liverpool, having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in aprivate vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the littleparticulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures, weremost promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with heartfeltsatisfaction on the faces around him—interrupting himself more than once,however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them all at home—comingunexpectedly as he did—all collected together exactly as he could havewished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten: a mostfriendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking had already met him, and withpointed attention he was now included in the objects most intimately connectedwith Mansfield. There was nothing disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth’sappearance, and Sir Thomas was liking him already.

By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken, unalloyedenjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to see him, and whosefeelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to place her nearer agitationthan she had been for the last twenty years. She had been almostfluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so sensibly animated as to putaway her work, move Pug from her side, and give all her attention and all therest of her sofa to her husband. She had no anxieties for anybody to cloudherpleasure: her own time had been irreproachably spent during hisabsence: she had done a great deal of carpet-work, and made many yards offringe; and she would have answered as freely for the good conduct and usefulpursuits of all the young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her tosee him again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her wholecomprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly to feel howdreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it would have been forher to bear a lengthened absence.

Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her sister. Not thatshewas incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas’s disapprobationwhen the present state of his house should be known, for her judgment had beenso blinded that, except by the instinctive caution with which she had whiskedaway Mr. Rushworth’s pink satin cloak as her brother-in-law entered, shecould hardly be said to shew any sign of alarm; but she was vexed by themannerof his return. It had left her nothing to do. Instead of beingsent for out of the room, and seeing him first, and having to spread the happynews 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 nowtrying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about, and labouringto be important where nothing was wanted but tranquillity and silence. WouldSir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper withtroublesome directions, and insulted the footmen with injunctions of despatch;but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner: he would take nothing, nothingtill tea came—he would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was atintervals urging something different; and in the most interesting moment of hispassage to England, when the alarm of a French privateer was at the height, sheburst through his recital with the proposal of soup. “Sure, my dear SirThomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea. Do havea basin of soup.”

Sir Thomas could not be provoked. “Still the same anxiety foreverybody’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; supposeyou hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night.” She carriedthis point, and Sir Thomas’s narrative proceeded.

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

“Indeed! and what have you been acting?”

“Oh! they’ll tell you all about it.”

“The allwill soon be told,” cried Tom hastily, and withaffected unconcern; “but it is not worth while to bore my father with itnow. You will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, byway of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week, toget up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains almostsince October began, that we have been nearly confined to the house for daystogether. I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd. Tolerable sport thefirst three days, but there has been no attempting anything since. The firstday I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton, andwe brought home six brace between us, and might each have killed six times asmany, but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you coulddesire. I do not think you will find your woods by any means worse stocked thanthey were. Inever saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life asthis 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, saidthat he found that he could not be any longer in the house without just lookinginto his own dear room, every agitation was returning. He was gone beforeanything had been said to prepare him for the change he must find there; and apause 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 feelingher hand pressed to Henry Crawford’s heart, and caring little foranything 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 andfetch 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 firstmeeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal surprisedto find candles burning in his room; and on casting his eye round it, to seeother symptoms of recent habitation and a general air of confusion in thefurniture. The removal of the bookcase from before the billiard-room doorstruck him especially, but he had scarcely more than time to feel astonished atall this, before there were sounds from the billiard-room to astonish him stillfarther. Some one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did not know thevoice—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 rantingyoung man, who appeared likely to knock him down backwards. At the very momentof Yates perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he hadever given in the whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram entered at theother end of the room; and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping hiscountenance. His father’s looks of solemnity and amazement on this hisfirst appearance on any stage, and the gradual metamorphosis of the impassionedBaron Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates, making his bow andapology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such an exhibition, such a piece of trueacting, as he would not have lost upon any account. It would be thelast—in all probability—the last scene on that stage; but he wassure 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, andwith many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir Thomas received Mr. Yateswith all the appearance of cordiality which was due to his own character, butwas really as far from pleased with the necessity of the acquaintance as withthe manner of its commencement. Mr. Yates’s family and connexions weresufficiently known to him to render his introduction as the “particularfriend,” 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 onfinding himself thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculousexhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so untoward amoment to admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure ofdisapproving, and whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of thefirst five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.

Tom understood his father’s thoughts, and heartily wishing he might bealways as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to see, moreclearly than he had ever done before, that there might be some ground ofoffence, that there might be some reason for the glance his father gave towardsthe ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when he inquired with mild gravityafter the fate of the billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond a veryallowable curiosity. A few minutes were enough for such unsatisfactorysensations on each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted himself so far as tospeak 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 thedrawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was notlost 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 ownroom—but in every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had notthe smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. Itappears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by candlelight, and doesmy friend Christopher Jackson credit.” And then he would have changed thesubject, and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic matters of a calmer hue;but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir Thomas’s meaning, ordiffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to allow him to lead thediscourse while he mingled among the others with the least obtrusivenesshimself, would keep him on the topic of the theatre, would torment him withquestions and remarks relative to it, and finally would make him hear the wholehistory of his disappointment at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely,but found much to offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion ofMr. Yates’s habits of thinking, from the beginning to the end of thestory; and when it was over, could give him no other assurance of sympathy thanwhat a slight bow conveyed.

“This was, in fact, the origin of ouracting,” said Tom,after a moment’s thought. “My friend Yates brought the infectionfrom Ecclesford, and it spread—as those things always spread, you know,sir—the faster, probably, from yourhaving so often encouraged thesort 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 immediatelygave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were doing: told him ofthe gradual increase of their views, the happy conclusion of their firstdifficulties, and present promising state of affairs; relating everything withso blind an interest as made him not only totally unconscious of the uneasymovements of many of his friends as they sat, the change of countenance, thefidget, the hem! of unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing theexpression of the face on which his own eyes were fixed—from seeing SirThomas’s dark brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness athis daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking alanguage, a remonstrance, a reproof, which hefelt at his heart. Notless acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind heraunt’s end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all thatwas passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his father shecould never have expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any degreedeserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas’s look implied, “Onyour judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?” She kneltin spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to utter, “Oh, not tohim! Look so to all the others, but not to him!”

Mr. Yates was still talking. “To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were inthe middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going throughthe three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our company is nowso dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home, that nothing more can be doneto-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, youunderstand, 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, headded, “I come home to be happy and indulgent.” Then turning awaytowards any or all of the rest, he tranquilly said, “Mr. and MissCrawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find themagreeable acquaintance?”

Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely withoutparticular regard for either, without jealousy either in love or acting, couldspeak 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 notgentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not abovefive feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man.”

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

“If I must say what I think,” continued Mr. Rushworth, “in myopinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too muchof a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are agreat deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doingnothing.”

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, “I amhappy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives mesincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feelmany scruples which my children do notfeel, is perfectly natural; andequally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a home which shuts outnoisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feelall this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybodyconnected with you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally ofsuch weight.”

Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth’s opinion in better wordsthan he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a genius inMr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notionsthan 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 hardlyknew what to do with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt, mostexceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas’s good opinion, and saying scarcelyanything, 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, andgive him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own sharein it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives todeserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his concession hadbeen attended with such partial good as to make his judgment in it verydoubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind ofthe others: but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could mentionwithout some necessity of defence or palliation. “We have all been moreor less to blame,” said he, “every one of us, excepting Fanny.Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout; who has beenconsistent. Herfeelings have been steadily against it from first tolast. She never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find Fannyeverything you could wish.”

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party, and atsuch a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he felt it toomuch, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to tryto lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how much he had been forgottenhimself as soon as he could, after the house had been cleared of every objectenforcing the remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enterinto any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to believethey felt their error than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of animmediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would besufficient.

There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to learnhis sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help giving Mrs. Norrisa hint of his having hoped that her advice might have been interposed toprevent what her judgment must certainly have disapproved. The young people hadbeen very inconsiderate in forming the plan; they ought to have been capable ofa better decision themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, hebelieved, of unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he mustregard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of theirunsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have beensuggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being silenced asever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to confess having never seenany of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not haveadmitted that her influence was insufficient—that she might have talkedin 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. Shehad a great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to generalattentionto the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices toglance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her ownfireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady Bertram andEdmund to detail, whereby a most considerable saving had always arisen, andmore than one bad servant been detected. But her chief strength lay inSotherton. Her greatest support and glory was in having formed the connexionwith the Rushworths. Thereshe was impregnable. She took to herself allthe credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth’s admiration of Maria to any effect.“If I had not been active,” said she, “and made a point ofbeing introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay thefirst 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 greatdeal of encouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if wehad been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven andearth to persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You know thedistance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the roads almostimpassable, but I did persuade her.”

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

“My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads thatday! I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the fourhorses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his great loveand kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on account of therheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since Michaelmas. I curedhim 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 himnot to venture: he was putting on his wig; so I said, ‘Coachman, you hadmuch better not go; your Lady and I shall be very safe; you know how steadyStephen is, and Charles has been upon the leaders so often now, that I am surethere is no fear.’ But, however, I soon found it would not do; he wasbent 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 roughlanes about Stoke, where, what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it wasworse than anything you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him. Andthen the poor horses too! To see them straining away! You know how I alwaysfeel for the horses. And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what doyou think I did? You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I didindeed. It might not be saving them much, but it was something, and I could notbear to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the expense of those noble animals.I caught a dreadful cold, but thatI did not regard. My object wasaccomplished in the visit.”

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

“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 sodisposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it, for everybodyconsiders 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 couldnot 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 presentpleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness did sometimes overpowerher judgment.

It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied but asmall part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted concerns of hisMansfield 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 allthis before he resumed his seat as master of the house at dinner, he had alsoset the carpenter to work in pulling down what had been so lately put up in thebilliard-room, and given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justifythe pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton. Thescene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room, ruined allthe coachman’s sponges, and made five of the under-servants idle anddissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or two would sufficeto wipe away every outward memento of what had been, even to the destruction ofevery unbound copy of Lovers’ Vows in the house, for he was burning allthat met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas’s intentions, thoughas far as ever from understanding their source. He and his friend had been outwith their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom had taken the opportunity ofexplaining, with proper apologies for his father’s particularity, whatwas to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as might be supposed. To be asecond time disappointed in the same way was an instance of very severeill-luck; and his indignation was such, that had it not been for delicacytowards his friend, and his friend’s youngest sister, he believed heshould certainly attack the baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, andargue him into a little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly whilehe was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something inSir Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think itwiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it withoutopposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often beenstruck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in the whole courseof his life, had he seen one of that class so unintelligibly moral, soinfamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was not a man to be endured but for hischildren’s sake, and he might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia thatMr. Yates did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind wasruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his daughters helped toconceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agitation. It wasof the utmost consequence to her that Crawford should now lose no time indeclaring himself, and she was disturbed that even a day should be gone bywithout seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting to see him thewhole morning, and all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworthhad set off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hopedfor such an immediate eclaircissementas might save him the trouble ofever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage, not acreature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation andinquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many, manyweeks, in which the families had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours hadnever passed before, since August began, without bringing them together in someway or other. It was a sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing inthe sort of evil, did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverishenjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was againin the house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respectsto Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into thebreakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, andMaria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved toher father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they a few minutesafterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair between herself andTom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resumingthe play after the present happy interruption (with a courteous glance at SirThomas), because, in that case, he should make a point of returning toMansfield 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 prospectof a renewal of Lovers’ Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged,he should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition withhis uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should notbe lost by hisabsence.

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

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He couldimmediately say with easy fluency, “I am sorry you are going; but as toour play, thatis all over—entirely at an end” (lookingsignificantly at his father). “The painter was sent off yesterday, andvery little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how thatwouldbe 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; andwhile this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wantedneither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it withtolerable calmness.

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

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

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it atdinner, 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 sincerityof Edmund’s too partial regard, to the unconcern of his mother speakingentirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her, and wonder that hisfalling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and could almost fear that shehad been remiss herself in forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how wasit possible for even heractivity to keep pace with her wishes?

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In hisdepartureSir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his family, thepresence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome; but ofhim, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way vexatious. Inhimself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia hebecame offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford’sgoing or staying: but his good wishes for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasantjourney, as he walked with him to the hall-door, were given with genuinesatisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to see the destruction of every theatricalpreparation at Mansfield, the removal of everything appertaining to the play:he left the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomashoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected withthe scheme, and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of itsexistence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might havedistressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such talent andsuch success, went off with her to her cottage, where she happened to beparticularly 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 analtered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits of manyothers saddened—it was all sameness and gloom compared with thepast—a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little intercoursewith the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies in general, wasparticularly disinclined, at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter.The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic circle which he couldsolicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father’s feelings, norcould he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. “Butthey,” he observed to Fanny, “have a claim. They seem to belong tous; they seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were moresensible of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he wasaway. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that myfather hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he leftEngland. 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 sometimesa 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, andmake our evenings pass away with more enjoyment even to my father.”

“Do you think so?” said Fanny: “in my opinion, my uncle wouldnot like anyaddition. I think he values the very quietness you speakof, and that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it doesnot appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be—I meanbefore my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always much thesame. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is anydifference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence has a tendency toproduce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect thatour evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was in town. Noyoung people’s are, I suppose, when those they look up to are athome”.

“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his reply, after a shortconsideration. “I believe our evenings are rather returned to what theywere, 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 beenfeeling as if we had never lived so before.”

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

“Why should you dare say that?” (smiling). “Do youwant to be told that you are only unlike other people in being more wise anddiscreet? 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 youruncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and though they maybe chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and trust to his seeing asmuch 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 longand the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something moreof it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been thought verypretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did admire you tillnow—and now he does. Your complexion is so improved!—and you havegained so much countenance!—and your figure—nay, Fanny, do not turnaway about it—it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear an uncle’sadmiration, what is to become of you? You must really begin to harden yourselfto the idea of being worth looking at. You must try not to mind growing up intoa 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 wasdistressed, he had done with the subject, and only added more seriously—

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

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

“I did—and was in hopes the question would be followed up byothers. 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 whilemy cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at allinterested in the subject, I did not like—I thought it would appear as ifI wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity andpleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters tofeel.”

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

“She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest ofyou,” 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 sovery natural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while, Idare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing for thedifference of the time of year.”

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

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and leaveuntouched all Miss Crawford’s resources—her accomplishments, herspirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her into anyobservations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford’s kind opinion ofherself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk ofsomething else.

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

“That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow’svisit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread the stupidityof the day, if there were not a much greater evil to follow—theimpression 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 hadnever met.”

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas. Not allhis good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth’s deference forhim, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of the truth—thatMr. 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 onMaria’s account, tried to understand herfeelings. Littleobservation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the mostfavourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth was carelessand cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas resolved to speakseriously to her. Advantageous as would be the alliance, and long standing andpublic as was the engagement, her happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr.Rushworth had, perhaps, been accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, onknowing him better, she was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears, inquiredinto her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and assured her thatevery inconvenience should be braved, and the connexion entirely given up, ifshe felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He would act for her andrelease her. Maria had a moment’s struggle as she listened, and only amoment’s: when her father ceased, she was able to give her answerimmediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation. She thanked him for hisgreat attention, his paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in supposingshe had the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sensibleof any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had thehighest esteem for Mr. Rushworth’s character and disposition, and couldnot have a doubt of her happiness with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge the matterquite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others. It was an alliancewhich he could not have relinquished without pain; and thus he reasoned. Mr.Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr. Rushworth must and would improve ingood society; and if Maria could now speak so securely of her happiness withhim, speaking certainly without the prejudice, the blindness of love, she oughtto be believed. Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposedthem to be so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if shecould dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character, therewould 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 ownfamily; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must naturally hold out thegreatest temptation, and would, in all probability, be a continual supply ofthe most amiable and innocent enjoyments. Such and such-like were thereasonings of Sir Thomas, happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture,the wonder, the reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to securea marriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability andinfluence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter’s dispositionthat was most favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a state ofmind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall: that she hadpledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from the possibility ofgiving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions, and destroying herprospects; and retired in proud resolve, determined only to behave morecautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future, that her father might not be againsuspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four daysafter Henry Crawford’s leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were at alltranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or absolutelyresolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been different; but afteranother three or four days, when there was no return, no letter, no message, nosymptom of a softened heart, no hope of advantage from separation, her mindbecame cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self revenge couldgive.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that he haddone 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 forhim, rejecting Sotherton and London, independence and splendour, forhissake. Independence was more needful than ever; the want of it atMansfield more sensibly felt. She was less and less able to endure therestraint which her father imposed. The liberty which his absence had given wasnow become absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soonas possible, and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and theworld, 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 anevil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the marriage thanherself. In all the important preparations of the mind she was complete: beingprepared for matrimony by an hatred of home, restraint, and tranquillity; bythe 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 waitfor London and spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a veryfew weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must precede thewedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the fortunate youngwoman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in November removedherself, 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 shehad ever done on the spot; and before the middle of the same month the ceremonyhad taken place which gave Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the twobridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother stood withsalts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried to cry; and theservice was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing could be objected to whenit came under the discussion of the neighbourhood, except that the carriagewhich conveyed the bride and bridegroom and Julia from the church-door toSotherton was the same chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonthbefore. In everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictestinvestigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father mustfeel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his wife had beenapprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped. Mrs. Norris, mosthappy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending it at the Park to supporther sister’s spirits, and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworthin a supernumerary glass or two, was all joyous delight; for she had made thematch; she had done everything; and no one would have supposed, from herconfident 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 hadbeen brought up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to Brighton, andtake a house there for some weeks. Every public place was new to Maria, andBrighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer. When the novelty of amusementthere 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 hadceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their former goodunderstanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of themexceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some other companion thanMr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to his lady; and Julia was quite aseager for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though she might not have struggledthrough so much to obtain them, and could better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm whichrequired some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly contracted; andthough the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to its gaiety, they couldnot but be missed. Even their mother missed them; and how much more theirtenderhearted cousin, who wandered about the house, and thought of them, andfelt for them, with a degree of affectionate regret which they had never donemuch 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 ofthat interesting division of a family in which she had hitherto held so humblea third, it was impossible for her not to be more looked at, more thought ofand attended to, than she had ever been before; and “Where isFanny?” became no uncommon question, even without her being wanted forany one’s convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In thathouse, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris’sdeath, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt of aNovember day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there, beginning bychance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant, really eager to get anychange for her sister, could, by the easiest self-deceit, persuade herself thatshe was doing the kindest thing by Fanny, and giving her the most importantopportunities of improvement in pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt Norris, wasovertaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and being descried from oneof the windows endeavouring to find shelter under the branches and lingeringleaves of an oak just beyond their premises, was forced, though not withoutsome modest reluctance on her part, to come in. A civil servant she hadwithstood; but when Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella, there wasnothing to be done but to be very much ashamed, and to get into the house asfast as possible; and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplatingthe dismal rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin ofall her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing asingle creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the sound ofa little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price dripping withwet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an event on a wet day in thecountry 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 bewetter than she would at first allow, and providing her with dry clothes; andFanny, after being obliged to submit to all this attention, and to beingassisted and waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, onreturning downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while therain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was thusextended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the period ofdressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might haveenjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way, and could shehave 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 outto take her home, with which she was threatened. As to anxiety for any alarmthat her absence in such weather might occasion at home, she had nothing tosuffer on that score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts, shewas perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage auntNorris might chuse to establish her during the rain, her being in such cottagewould 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 herwishing 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 herselfit appeared a very simple and natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever beenat the Parsonage since the instrument’s arrival, there had been no reasonthat she should; but Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish onthe subject, was concerned at her own neglect; and “Shall I play to younow?” and “What will you have?” were questions immediatelyfollowing with the readiest good-humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener who seemedso much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and who shewed herselfnot wanting in taste. She played till Fanny’s eyes, straying to thewindow on the weather’s being evidently fair, spoke what she felt must bedone.

“Another quarter of an hour,” said Miss Crawford, “and weshall 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 watchingthem. This weather is all from the south.”

“South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not setforward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play something moreto you—a very pretty piece—and your cousin Edmund’s primefavourite. You must stay and hear your cousin’s favourite.”

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that sentence to bethinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly awake to his idea, andshe fancied him sitting in that room again and again, perhaps in the very spotwhere she sat now, listening with constant delight to the favourite air,played, as it appeared to her, with superior tone and expression; and thoughpleased with it herself, and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she wasmore sincerely impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had beenbefore; and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, totake 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 themwithin the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams’ going away—anintimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford’s desire of somethingnew, and which had little reality in Fanny’s feelings. Fanny went to herevery two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could not be easywithout going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever thinking likeher, without any sense of obligation for being sought after now when nobodyelse was to be had; and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation thanoccasional amusement, and thatoften at the expense of her judgment,when it was raised by pleasantry on people or subjects which she wished to berespected. She went, however, and they sauntered about together many anhalf-hour in Mrs. Grant’s shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild forthe time of year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of thebenches now comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in themidst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny’s on the sweets of soprotracted an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold gustshaking down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk forwarmth.

“This is pretty, very pretty,” said Fanny, looking around her asthey were thus sitting together one day; “every time I come into thisshrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago, thiswas nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field, neverthought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything; and now it isconverted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether most valuableas a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in another three years, we may beforgetting—almost forgetting what it was before. How wonderful, how verywonderful the operations of time, and the changes of the human mind!” Andfollowing the latter train of thought, she soon afterwards added: “If anyone faculty of our nature may be called morewonderful than the rest, Ido think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensiblein the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other ofour intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, soobedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, sotyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but ourpowers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past findingout.”

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 meto praise, but I must admire thetaste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in theplan of the walk! Not too much attempted!”

“Yes,” replied Miss Crawford carelessly, “it does very wellfor a place of this sort. One does not think of extent here; and betweenourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson everaspired 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 hisown, and so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens ingeneral. The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful theevergreen! When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In somecountries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that doesnot make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun should nurtureplants differing in the first rule and law of their existence. You will thinkme rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially when I am sitting outof doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of wondering strain. One cannotfix one’s eyes on the commonest natural production without finding foodfor a rambling fancy.”

“To say the truth,” replied Miss Crawford, “I am somethinglike the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see nowonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had told me ayear ago that this place would be my home, that I should be spending monthafter month here, as I have done, I certainly should not have believed them. Ihave now been here nearly five months; and, moreover, the quietest five monthsI ever passed.”

“Tooquiet for you, I believe.”

“I should have thought so theoreticallymyself, but,” andher eyes brightened as she spoke, “take it all and all, I never spent sohappy 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 orsoliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed animation, soonwent on—

“I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residencethan I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to spendhalfthe year in the country, under certain circumstances, verypleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family connexions;continual engagements among them; commanding the first society in theneighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even more than those oflarger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round of such amusements tonothing worse than a tête-à-têtewith the person one feels mostagreeable 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 asthat.”

“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. Sucha match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing; for the first pleasuresof Mr. Rushworth’s wife must be to fill her house, and give the bestballs in the country.”

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till suddenlylooking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, “Ah! here heis.” It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then appearedwalking towards them with Mrs. Grant. “My sister and Mr. Bertram. I am soglad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr. Bertram again. There issomething in the sound of Mr. EdmundBertram so formal, so pitiful, soyounger-brother-like, that I detest it.”

“How differently we feel!” cried Fanny. “To me, the sound ofMr.Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmthor character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that’s all. But thereis nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; ofkings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry andwarm affections.”

“I grant you the name is good in itself, and LordEdmund orSirEdmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, theannihilation 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 downout 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 seeingthem together since the beginning of that better acquaintance which he had beenhearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship between two so very dear tohim was exactly what he could have wished: and to the credit of thelover’s understanding, be it stated, that he did not by any meansconsider 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 ourimprudence? What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked toabout it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?”

“Perhaps I might have scolded,” said Edmund, “if either ofyou had been sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I canoverlook a great deal.”

“They cannot have been sitting long,” cried Mrs. Grant, “forwhen I went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then theywere walking.”

“And really,” added Edmund, “the day is so mild, that yoursitting down for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weathermust not always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greaterliberties in November than in May.”

“Upon my word,” cried Miss Crawford, “you are two of the mostdisappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no givingyou a moment’s uneasiness. You do not know how much we have beensuffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr. Bertramone of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre against commonsense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very little hope of himfrom the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had aright to alarm you a little.”

“Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallestchance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a differentquarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a goodsharp east wind blowing on you the whole time—for here are some of myplants which Robert willleave out because the nights are so mild, and Iknow the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change of weather, ahard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least Robert) bysurprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook has just beentelling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished not to be dressed tillSunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday afterthe fatigues of the day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are somethinglike grievances, and make me think the weather most unseasonably close.”

“The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!” said MissCrawford 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 youcould be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have medo?”

“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, livewhere we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I daresay I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer,perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and unpunctuality, or theirexorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing forth bitterlamentations.”

“I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. A largeincome is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It certainly maysecure all the myrtle and turkey part of it.”

“You intend to be very rich?” said Edmund, with a look which, toFanny’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 powerto command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has only to fixon 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 personat your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent connexions. Whatcan youwant but a decent maintenance? You have not much time beforeyou; and your relations are in no situation to do anything for you, or tomortify you by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence. Be honest andpoor, by all means—but I shall not envy you; I do not much think I shalleven respect you. I have a much greater respect for those that are honest andrich.”

“Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what Ihave no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is exactlywhat I have determined against. Honesty, in the something between, in themiddle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am anxious for your notlooking down on.”

“But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must lookdown upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise todistinction.”

“But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to anydistinction?”

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 tenyears ago.”

“Thatis not much to the purpose now; and as to my being inparliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for therepresentation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, MissCrawford,” he added, in a more serious tone, “there aredistinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without anychance—absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining—butthey are of a different character.”

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of manneron Miss Crawford’s side as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowfullfood for Fanny’s observation; and finding herself quite unable to attendas she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following the others, shehad nearly resolved on going home immediately, and only waited for courage tosay 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, andbrought the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not justthen, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directlybegan her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that hismother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonageon purpose to bring her back.

Fanny’s hurry increased; and without in the least expectingEdmund’s attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the generalpace was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through whichit was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt tospeak to him she found, from Edmund’s manner, that he didmean togo with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In themoment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with himthe next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on theoccasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her and askedfor the pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectlynew a circumstance in the events of Fanny’s life, that she was allsurprise and embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, andher “but she did not suppose it would be in her power,” was lookingat Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having suchan 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 imaginethat his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gavehis decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and thoughFanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight ofaudacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to thecontrary, 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, mydear,” turning to her husband, “cook insists upon theturkey’s being dressed to-morrow.”

“Very well, very well,” cried Dr. Grant, “all the better; Iam 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 hearthe bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have inview. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cookchuse to give us.”

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussionof this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as soparticularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so muchpleasure 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, youknow, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not wantto go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?”

“If you put such a question to her,” cried Edmund, preventing hiscousin’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 shouldnot.”

“I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She neverdid before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never askedFanny.”

“If you cannot do without me, ma’am—” said Fanny, in aself-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’sopinion as to the proprietyof the invitation’s being accepted ornot; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as byFanny, that being the firstinvitation it should be accepted.”

“I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised thatMrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.”

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, tillSir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her ownevening’s comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in LadyBertram’s mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for aminute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him backagain, when he had almost closed the door, with “Sir Thomas, stop amoment—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 subjectof any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She wasanxious, she knew—more anxious perhaps than she ought to be—forwhat was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be agreat while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and thosegrave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not beable to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, wenton well. It began, on Lady Bertram’s part, with—“I havesomething to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny todinner.”

“Well,” said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish thesurprise.

“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 hismother’s story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, “Sostrange! 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 shortdeliberation; “nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, inmy opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant’s shewing civility to Miss Price,to Lady Bertram’s niece, could never want explanation. The only surpriseI can feel is, that this should be the firsttime of its being paid.Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears tofeel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all youngpeople like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied theindulgence.”

“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, andI 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 hisown.

“Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallesthesitation on your uncle’s side. He had but one opinion. You are togo.”

“Thank you, I am soglad,” was Fanny’s instinctivereply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could nothelp feeling, “And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain ofseeing or hearing something there to pain me?”

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such anengagement 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; andthough now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it wasdining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments inthemselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought tohave entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram neverthought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on themorrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was ina very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece’spleasure, both present and future, as much as possible.

“Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attentionand indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking ofyou, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it assomething extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no realoccasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out atall; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must yoube fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment toyou; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs.Grant thinks it a civility due to usto take a little notice of you, orelse 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 atall.”

Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant’s part of thefavour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say thatshe was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she wasendeavouring to put her aunt’s evening work in such a state as to preventher being missed.

“Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you wouldnot be allowed to go. Ishall be here, so you may be quite easy aboutyour aunt. And I hope you will have a very agreeableday, and find itall mighty delightful. But I must observe that five is the veryawkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but besurprised that such an elegantlady as Mrs. Grant should not contrivebetter! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the roomso dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when Icame away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having thatabsurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than thedinner-table here, how infinitely better it would have been! and how much morehe would have been respected! for people are never respected when they step outof their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five—only five to besitting round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, Idare say.”

Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.

“The nonsense and folly of people’s stepping out of their rank andtrying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give youahint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I dobeseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking andgiving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins—as if you weredear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. Thatwill never do, believe me. Remember,wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford isin 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 sawit more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as well asyou can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly donot go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out on myaccount; so you must make up your mind to what may happen, and take your thingsaccordingly.”

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims to comfortas low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon afterwards, justopening the door, said, “Fanny, at what time would you have the carriagecome round?” she felt a degree of astonishment which made it impossiblefor 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 unanswerabledignity, and coming farther into the room. “My niece walk to a dinnerengagement at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suityou?”

“Yes, sir,” was Fanny’s humble answer, given with thefeelings almost of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remainwith her in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out ofthe room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words spokenin angry agitation—

“Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it isupon 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, comingimmediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her some tears ofgratitude when she was alone.

The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down thegentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being late, beenmany minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them off in as goodtime as his own correctly punctual habits required.

“Now I must look at you, Fanny,” said Edmund, with the kind smileof an affectionate brother, “and tell you how I like you; and as well asI can judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you goton?”

“The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on mycousin’s marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought towear it as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunityall 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 nofinery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems verypretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown something thesame?”

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard andcoach-house.

“Heyday!” said Edmund, “here’s company, here’s acarriage! who have they got to meet us?” And letting down the side-glassto distinguish, “’Tis Crawford’s, Crawford’s barouche,I protest! There are his own two men pushing it back into its old quarters. Heis here, of course. This is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad tosee him.”

There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very differentlyshe felt; but the idea of having such another to observe her was a greatincrease of the trepidation with which she performed the very awful ceremony ofwalking into the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long enougharrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks of the threeothers standing round him, shewed how welcome was his sudden resolution ofcoming to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A very cordial meeting passedbetween him and Edmund; and with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure wasgeneral; and even to herthere might be some advantage in his presence,since every addition to the party must rather forward her favourite indulgenceof being suffered to sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of thisherself; for though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, inspite of her aunt Norris’s opinion, to being the principal lady incompany, and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found,while they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, inwhich she was not required to take any part—there was so much to be saidbetween the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two young menabout hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant, and ofeverything and all together between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant, as to leaveher the fairest prospect of having only to listen in quiet, and of passing avery agreeable day. She could not compliment the newly arrived gentleman,however, with any appearance of interest, in a scheme for extending his stay atMansfield, and sending for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr.Grant, advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon inpossession of his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even byher to resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of theopen weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as civilityallowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have himspeak to her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on seeinghim; but no embarrassing remembrance affected hisspirits. Here he wasagain on the same ground where all had passed before, and apparently as willingto stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, as if he had never knownMansfield in any other state. She heard them spoken of by him only in a generalway, till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund, beingengaged apart in some matter of business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirelyto engross them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking ofthem with more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile,which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, “So! Rushworth and his fairbride 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 figuresmuch in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friendJulia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates.”

“Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!” continuedCrawford. “Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see himnow—his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovelyMaria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her”; adding,with a momentary seriousness, “She is too good for him—much toogood.” And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, andaddressing Fanny, he said, “You were Mr. Rushworth’s best friend.Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patiencein trying to make it possible for him to learn his part—in trying to givehim a brain which nature had denied—to mix up an understanding for himout of the superfluity of your own! Hemight not have sense enoughhimself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honourfrom all the rest of the party.”

Fanny coloured, and said nothing.

“It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!” he exclaimed, breaking forthagain, after a few minutes’ musing. “I shall always look back onour theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such ananimation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. Therewas employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Alwayssome little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. Inever was happier.”

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, “Neverhappier!—never happier than when doing what you must know was notjustifiable!—never happier than when behaving so dishonourably andunfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!”

“We were unlucky, Miss Price,” he continued, in a lower tone, toavoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of herfeelings, “we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one otherweek, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal ofevents—if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just for aweek or two, about the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that wewould have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather—but only by asteady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have indulgedourselves with a week’s calm in the Atlantic at that season.”

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said, with afirmer tone than usual, “As far as Iam concerned, sir, I wouldnot have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so entirelywhen he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone quite farenough.”

She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and never soangrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled and blushed ather own daring. He was surprised; but after a few moments’ silentconsideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the candidresult of conviction, “I believe you are right. It was more pleasant thanprudent. We were getting too noisy.” And then turning the conversation,he would have engaged her on some other subject, but her answers were so shyand reluctant that he could not advance in any.

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, nowobserved, “Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point todiscuss.”

“The most interesting in the world,” replied herbrother—“how to make money; how to turn a good income into abetter. Dr. Grant is giving Bertram instructions about the living he is to stepinto so soon. I find he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in thedining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will have avery pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned without muchtrouble. I apprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Sevenhundred a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of course he willstill live at home, it will be all for his menusplaisirs; and asermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total ofsacrifice.”

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, “Nothing amuses memore than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance of thosewho have a great deal less than themselves. You would look rather blank, Henry,if your menusplaisirswere to be limited to seven hundred ayear.”

“Perhaps I might; but all thatyou know is entirely comparative.Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly well offfor a cadet of even a baronet’s family. By the time he is four or fiveand twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for it.”

Miss Crawford couldhave said that there would be a something to do andto suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she checked herselfand let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned when the two gentlemenshortly afterwards joined them.

“Bertram,” said Henry Crawford, “I shall make a point ofcoming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come onpurpose to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will notyou join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend with youreyes steadily fixed on him the whole time—as I shall do—not to losea word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence preeminentlybeautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil. When will itbe? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that Sir Thomas and Lady Bertrammay hear you.”

“I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,” saidEdmund; “for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should bemore sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man.”

“Will he not feel this?” thought Fanny. “No, he can feelnothing 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 aftertea—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, shehad nothing to do but to listen; and her tranquillity remained undisturbed therest of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her aquestion or observation, which she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford wastoo 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 herlike a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at adistance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very angry withhim. She had thought her influence more. She hadbegun to think of him;she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost decided intentions; butshe would now meet him with his own cool feelings. It was plain that he couldhave no serious views, no true attachment, by fixing himself in a situationwhich he must know she would never stoop to. She would learn to match him inhis indifference. She would henceforth admit his attentions without any ideabeyond immediate amusement. If hecould so command his affections,hersshould do her no harm.

CHAPTER XXIV

Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give anotherfortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and written a fewlines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at his sister as he sealedand threw the letter from him, and seeing the coast clear of the rest of thefamily, 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 thanthree times a week; but I have a plan for the intermediate days, and what doyou think it is?”

“To walk and ride with me, to be sure.”

“Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but thatwouldbe exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides,thatwould be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome alloyof labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan is tomake Fanny Price in love with me.”

“Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her twocousins.”

“But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a smallhole in Fanny Price’s heart. You do not seem properly aware of her claimsto notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you seemed sensible ofthe wonderful improvement that has taken place in her looks within the last sixweeks. You see her every day, and therefore do not notice it; but I assure youshe is quite a different creature from what she was in the autumn. She was thenmerely a quiet, modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutelypretty. I used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in thatsoft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, thereis decided beauty; and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do notdespair of their being capable of expression enough when she has anything toexpress. And then, her air, her manner, her toutensemble, is soindescribably improved! She must be grown two inches, at least, sinceOctober.”

“Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare herwith, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so well dressedbefore. She is just what she was in October, believe me. The truth is, that shewas the only girl in company for you to notice, and you must have a somebody. Ihave 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 wonderfuldegree of improvement, I am sure it may all be resolved into a better style ofdress, and your having nobody else to look at; and therefore, if you do setabout a flirtation with her, you never will persuade me that it is incompliment to her beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your ownidleness 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 shesolemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did she draw back and look so graveat me? I could hardly get her to speak. I never was so long in company with agirl in my life, trying to entertain her, and succeed so ill! Never met with agirl who looked so grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her lookssay, ‘I will not like you, I am determined not to like you’; and Isay she shall.”

“Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is, hernot caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes her so muchtaller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do desire that you will notbe making her really unhappy; a littlelove, perhaps, may animate and doher good, but I will not have you plunge her deep, for she is as good a littlecreature as ever lived, and has a great deal of feeling.”

“It can be but for a fortnight,” said Henry; “and if afortnight 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 lookkindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me byherself 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 tokeep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away that she shall be neverhappy 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, afate which, had not Fanny’s heart been guarded in a way unsuspected byMiss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she deserved; for althoughthere doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies of eighteen (or one shouldnot read about them) as are never to be persuaded into love against theirjudgment by all that talent, manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have noinclination to believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so muchtenderness of disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could haveescaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of afortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some previous illopinion 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 tothe peace of mind he was attacking, his continued attentions—continued,but not obtrusive, and adapting themselves more and more to the gentleness anddelicacy of her character—obliged her very soon to dislike him less thanformerly. She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of himas ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were soimproved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it wasimpossible 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 ofpleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness which mustdispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her brother, the so longabsent and dearly loved brother, was in England again. She had a letter fromhim 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 inSpithead; and when Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which hehad hoped would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy overthis letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kindinvitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.

It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly master ofthe 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 veryproperly lively, determining him on his return to town to apply for informationas 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 thenext morning seemed the reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a method ofpleasing her, as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having formany 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 hehad hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But his intention, thekindness of his intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite thankfully andwarmly, for she was elevated beyond the common timidity of her mind by the flowof her love for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt of hisobtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a midshipman; andas his parents, from living on the spot, must already have seen him, and beseeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays might with justice be instantlygiven to the sister, who had been his best correspondent through a period ofseven 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 hisarrival, came as soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fannyhad been in the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself inan agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on thestairs, 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 ceremonynor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with him as he enteredthe house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling had no interruption andno witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent upon opening the proper doorscould be called such. This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had beenseparately conniving at, as each proved to the other by the sympatheticalacrity with which they both advised Mrs. Norris’s continuing where shewas, instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrivalreached them.

William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the pleasure ofreceiving, in his protégé, certainly a very different person from the one hehad equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an open, pleasant countenance,and frank, unstudied, but feeling and respectful manners, and such as confirmedhim his friend.

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of such anhour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation, and the first offruition; it was some time even before her happiness could be said to make herhappy, before the disappointment inseparable from the alteration of person hadvanished, 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 asher own, and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was thefirst object of his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, andbolder temper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the morrowthey were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every succeedingmorrow renewed a tête-à-têtewhich Sir Thomas could not but observe withcomplacency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or unlooked-forinstance of Edmund’s consideration of her in the last few months hadexcited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life, as in thisunchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and friend who wasopening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes and fears, plans, andsolicitudes respecting that long thought of, dearly earned, and justly valuedblessing of promotion; who could give her direct and minute information of thefather and mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who wasinterested in all the comforts and all the little hardships of her home atMansfield; ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, ordiffering only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their auntNorris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all theevil and good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and everyformer united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection. Anadvantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal tie isbeneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same blood, with thesame first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in theirpower, which no subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a long andunnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connexion can justify,if such precious remains of the earliest attachments are ever entirelyoutlived. Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes almosteverything, is at others worse than nothing. But with William and Fanny Priceit was still a sentiment in all its prime and freshness, wounded by noopposition of interest, cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling theinfluence of time and absence only in its increase.

An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had heartsto value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with it as any. Hehonoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young sailor, which led him tosay, with his hands stretched towards Fanny’s head, “Do you know, Ibegin to like that queer fashion already, though when I first heard of suchthings being done in England, I could not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, andthe other women at the Commissioner’s at Gibraltar, appeared in the sametrim, I thought they were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything”;and saw, with lively admiration, the glow of Fanny’s cheek, thebrightness of her eye, the deep interest, the absorbed attention, while herbrother was describing any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, whichsuch 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 thesensibility which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance wasan attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of herheart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to be loved bysuch a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young unsophisticated mind! Sheinterested him more than he had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough. His staybecame indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals wereamusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in seeking them wasto understand the reciter, to know the young man by his histories; and helistened to his clear, simple, spirited details with full satisfaction, seeingin them the proof of good principles, professional knowledge, energy, courage,and cheerfulness, everything that could deserve or promise well. Young as hewas, 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 shoreby the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven years had known everyvariety of danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means inhis power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could fidgetabout the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls of thread or asecond-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew’s account of ashipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive; and even Lady Bertramcould not hear of such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyesfrom her work to say, “Dear me! how disagreeable! I wonder anybody canever 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 gonethrough such bodily hardships and given such proofs of mind. The glory ofheroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits ofselfish indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been aWilliam Price, distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune andconsequence 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 ofretrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund as to hisplans for the next day’s hunting; and he found it was as well to be a manof fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command. In one respect it wasbetter, as it gave him the means of conferring a kindness where he wished tooblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity up to anything, William expressedan inclination to hunt; and Crawford could mount him without the slightestinconvenience 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 toreason away in Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all thathe could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the scramblingparties 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 themanagement of a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he returnedsafe and well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to therisk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horsewhich he had fully intended it should produce. When it was proved, however, tohave done William no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even rewardthe owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his useagain; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to beresisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained inNorthamptonshire.

CHAPTER XXV

The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly restored towhat it had been in the autumn, than any member of the old intimacy had thoughtever likely to be again. The return of Henry Crawford, and the arrival ofWilliam Price, had much to do with it, but much was still owing to SirThomas’s more than toleration of the neighbourly attempts at theParsonage. His mind, now disengaged from the cares which had pressed on him atfirst, was at leisure to find the Grants and their young inmates really worthvisiting; and though infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the mostadvantageous matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparentpossibilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a littlenessthe being quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in agrand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing hisniece—nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a morewilling assent to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the generalinvitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many doubts as towhether it were worth while, “because Sir Thomas seemed so ill inclined,and Lady Bertram was so indolent!” proceeded from good-breeding andgoodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr. Crawford, but as being one in anagreeable group: for it was in the course of that very visit that he firstbegan to think that any one in the habit of such idle observations wouldhavethoughtthat Mr. Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in a goodproportion of those who would talk and those who would listen; and the dinneritself 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 exceptin Mrs. Norris, who could never behold either the wide table or the number ofdishes on it with patience, and who did always contrive to experience some evilfrom the passing of the servants behind her chair, and to bring away some freshconviction of its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must becold.

In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs. Grantand her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would remainsufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly complying andwithout a choice as on such occasions they always are, speculation was decidedon almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram soon found herself in the criticalsituation of being applied to for her own choice between the games, and beingrequired either to draw a card for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily SirThomas was at hand.

“What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will amuse memost?”

Sir Thomas, after a moment’s thought, recommended speculation. He was awhist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much amuse himto have her for a partner.

“Very well,” was her ladyship’s contented answer; “thenspeculation, if you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny mustteach me.”

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own equalignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in her life; andLady Bertram felt a moment’s indecision again; but upon everybody’sassuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the easiest game on thecards, and Henry Crawford’s stepping forward with a most earnest requestto 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 beingseated at the table of prime intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six,under Miss Crawford’s direction, were arranged round the other. It was afine arrangement for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his handsfull 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 therules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play, sharpenher avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in any competition withWilliam, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady Bertram, he mustcontinue in charge of all her fame and fortune through the whole evening; andif quick enough to keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began, mustdirect 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 allthe lively turns, quick resources, and playful impudence that could do honourto the game; and the round table was altogether a very comfortable contrast tothe steady sobriety and orderly silence of the other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his lady, butin vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured manner needed; andvery little of her state could be known till Mrs. Grant was able, at the end ofthe 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 knowwhat it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford does all therest.”

“Bertram,” said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking theopportunity of a little languor in the game, “I have never told you whathappened to me yesterday in my ride home.” They had been huntingtogether, and were in the midst of a good run, and at some distance fromMansfield, when his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford hadbeen obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. “I told you Ilost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees, because I cannever bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my usual luck—for Inever do wrong without gaining by it—I found myself in due time in thevery place which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly, upon turning thecorner of a steepish downy field, in the midst of a retired little villagebetween gently rising hills; a small stream before me to be forded, a churchstanding on a sort of knoll to my right—which church was strikingly largeand handsome for the place, and not a gentleman or half a gentleman’shouse to be seen excepting one—to be presumed the Parsonage—withina 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 turnafter passing Sewell’s farm?”

“I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I toanswer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never be ableto prove that it was notThornton Lacey—for such it certainlywas.”

“You inquired, then?”

“No, I never inquire. But I tolda man mending a hedge that it wasThornton Lacey, and he agreed to it.”

“You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half somuch of the place.”

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford wellknew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price’s knaveincreased.

“Well,” continued Edmund, “and how did you like what yousaw?”

“Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for fivesummers at least before the place is liveable.”

“No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you; butI am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and when theyard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it.”

“The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut outthe blacksmith’s shop. The house must be turned to front the east insteadof the north—the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be on thatside, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be done. Andtheremust be your approach, through what is at present the garden. Youmust make a new garden at what is now the back of the house; which will begiving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to the south-east. The groundseems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards up the lane, between thechurch and the house, in order to look about me; and saw how it might all be.Nothing can be easier. The meadows beyond what willbethegarden, as well as what now is, sweeping round from the lane I stood into the north-east, that is, to the principal road through the village, must beall laid together, of course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkledwith timber. They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchasethem. Then the stream—something must be done with the stream; but I couldnot quite determine what. I had two or three ideas.”

“And I have two or three ideas also,” said Edmund, “and oneof them is, that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be putin practice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I thinkthe house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air of agentleman’s residence, without any very heavy expense, and that mustsuffice 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 hastyfinish of her dealings with William Price; and securing his knave at anexorbitant rate, exclaimed, “There, I will stake my last like a woman ofspirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not born to sit still and do nothing. IfI 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 secureit. 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 itin; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you will findyourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of. (Excuse me, yourladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie just before you.) Theplace deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it the air of agentleman’s residence. Thatwill be done by the removal of thefarmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw a house ofthe 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 theexpenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is not a scrambling collection of lowsingle rooms, with as many roofs as windows; it is not cramped into the vulgarcompactness of a square farmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like lookinghouse, such as one might suppose a respectable old country family had lived infrom generation to generation, through two centuries at least, and were nowspending 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 ofmuch 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 willhave nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By some such improvements as I havesuggested (I do not really require you to proceed upon my plan, though, by thebye, I doubt anybody’s striking out a better) you may give it a highercharacter. You may raise it into a place. From being the meregentleman’s residence, it becomes, by judicious improvement, theresidence of a man of education, taste, modern manners, good connexions. Allthis may be stamped on it; and that house receive such an air as to make itsowner be set down as the great landholder of the parish by every creaturetravelling the road; especially as there is no real squire’s house todispute the point—a circumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the valueof such a situation in point of privilege and independence beyond allcalculation. Youthink with me, I hope” (turning with a softenedvoice to Fanny). “Have you ever seen the place?”

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the subject byan eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a bargain, andimposing 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 yourbrother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir, hands off, hands off. Yoursister does not part with the queen. She is quite determined. The game will beyours,” 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 shewishes!”

“Mr. Bertram,” said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards,“you know Henry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possiblyengage 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 wereproduced there by our all going with him one hot day in August to drive aboutthe grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we went, and there we camehome again; and what was done there is not to be told!”

Fanny’s eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression morethan grave—even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantlywithdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his sister, andlaughingly replied, “I cannot say there was much done at Sotherton; butit was a hot day, and we were all walking after each other, andbewildered.” As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he added, in alow voice, directed solely at Fanny, “I should be sorry to have my powersof planningjudged of by the day at Sotherton. I see things verydifferently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then.”

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the happyleisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas’s capitalplay and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant’s great hands, she calledout, in high good-humour, “Sotherton! Yes, that is a place, indeed, andwe had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of luck; but the nexttime you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth will be at home, and I amsure I can answer for your being kindly received by both. Your cousins are notof 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 knowthe 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 littleparcel 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 smartplace as that—poor scrubby midshipman as I am.”

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might dependon, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas’s saying with authority, “Ido not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may soon havemore convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters would be happy tosee their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr. Rushworth most sincerelydisposed to regard all the connexions of our family as his own.”

“I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord thananything else,” was William’s only answer, in an undervoice, notmeant 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 leavingDr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their last play, he became alooker-on at the other, he found his niece the object of attentions, or ratherof 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 fairneighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme was to rent thehouse himself the following winter, that he might have a home of his own inthat neighbourhood; and it was not merely for the use of it in thehunting-season (as he was then telling her), though thatconsiderationhad 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 tobe accommodated where they now were without material inconvenience; but hisattachment to that neighbourhood did not depend upon one amusement or oneseason of the year: he had set his heart upon having a something there that hecould come to at any time, a little homestall at his command, where all theholidays of his year might be spent, and he might find himself continuing,improving, and perfectingthat friendship and intimacy with theMansfield Park family which was increasing in value to him every day. SirThomas heard and was not offended. There was no want of respect in the youngman’s address; and Fanny’s reception of it was so proper andmodest, so calm and uninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She saidlittle, assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination either ofappropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening hisviews in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was observed, HenryCrawford addressed himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas, in a moreeveryday tone, but still with feeling.

“I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard metelling Miss Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your notinfluencing your son against such a tenant?”

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, “It is the only way, sir, in whichI could notwish 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, onunderstanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.

“Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford, though Irefuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Consider the house as half yourown every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own improved plan, andwith all the improvements of your improved plan that may occur to you thisspring.”

“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 reconcilehimself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have thoughtmuch on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and claims which canbe known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and which no proxy can becapable 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, withoutgiving up Mansfield Park: he might ride over every Sunday, to a house nominallyinhabited, and go through divine service; he might be the clergyman of ThorntonLacey 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 weeklysermon can convey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners, andprove himself, by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend, he doesvery little either for their good or his own.”

Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.

“I repeat again,” added Sir Thomas, “that Thornton Lacey isthe only house in the neighbourhood in which I should notbe happy towait on Mr. Crawford as occupier.”

Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.

“Sir Thomas,” said Edmund, “undoubtedly understands the dutyof a parish priest. We must hope his son may prove that heknows ittoo.”

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 hismost attentive listeners—Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of whom, havingnever before understood that Thornton was so soon and so completely to be hishome, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it would be notto seeEdmund every day; and the other, startled from the agreeable fancies she hadbeen previously indulging on the strength of her brother’s description,no longer able, in the picture she had been forming of a future Thornton, toshut out the church, sink the clergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant,modernised, and occasional residence of a man of independent fortune, wasconsidering Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this,and suffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his characterand manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself by a singleattempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of herspeculation was over for that hour. It was timeto have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad to find itnecessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her spirits by achange of place and neighbour.

The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the fire, andwaiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most detached. Theyremained together at the otherwise deserted card-table, talking verycomfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of the rest began to thinkof them. Henry Crawford’s chair was the first to be given a directiontowards them, and he sat silently observing them for a few minutes; himself, inthe meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas, who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.

“This is the assembly night,” said William. “If I were atPortsmouth 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 ofdancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not know that there would be anygood in going to the assembly, for I might not get a partner. The Portsmouthgirls turn up their noses at anybody who has not a commission. One might aswell be nothing as a midshipman. One isnothing, indeed. You rememberthe Gregorys; they are grown up amazing fine girls, but they will hardly speakto me, because Lucy is courted by a lieutenant.”

“Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William” (her own cheeks in aglow of indignation as she spoke). “It is not worth minding. It is noreflection on you; it is no more than what the greatest admirals haveall experienced, more or less, in their time. You must think of that, you musttry to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which fall to everysailor’s share, like bad weather and hard living, only with thisadvantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will come a time whenyou will have nothing of that sort to endure. When you are a lieutenant! onlythink, William, when you are a lieutenant, how little you will care for anynonsense of this kind.”

“I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody getsmade but me.”

“Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. My unclesays 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 anysuspicion 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 neverany balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance, and I’d dancewith you if you would, for nobody would know who I was here, and Ishould like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about together many atime, did not we? when the hand-organ was in the street? I am a pretty gooddancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better.” And turning to hisuncle, 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 tolook, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave reproof, or atleast the coldest expression of indifference, must be coming to distress herbrother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the contrary, it was no worsethan, “I am sorry to say that I am unable to answer your question. I havenever seen Fanny dance since she was a little girl; but I trust we shall boththink 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 everyinquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction. But Ibelieve” (seeing Fanny looked distressed) “it must be at some othertime. There is oneperson in company who does not like to have MissPrice spoken of.”

True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true that hewould now have answered for her gliding about with quiet, light elegance, andin admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the life of him recall whather dancing had been, and rather took it for granted that she had been presentthan remembered anything about her.

He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by no meansdispleased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general, and was so wellengaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening to what his nephewcould relate of the different modes of dancing which had fallen within hisobservation, that he had not heard his carriage announced, and was first calledto the knowledge of it by the bustle of Mrs. Norris.

“Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not you seeyour aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep good old Wilcoxwaiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses. My dear SirThomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come back for you, andEdmund and William.”

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement, previouslycommunicated to his wife and sister; but thatseemed 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 whichEdmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put round her shoulderswas seized by Mr. Crawford’s quicker hand, and she was obliged to beindebted to his more prominent attention.

CHAPTER XXVI

William’s desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentaryimpression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas had thengiven, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained steadily inclined togratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody else who might wish to seeFanny dance, and to give pleasure to the young people in general; and havingthought the matter over, and taken his resolution in quiet independence, theresult of it appeared the next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling andcommending what his nephew had said, he added, “I do not like, William,that you should leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would giveme pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton. Yourcousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not altogether suit usnow. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I believe we must not thinkof a Northampton ball. A dance at home would be more eligible; andif—”

“Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!” interrupted Mrs. Norris, “I knewwhat 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 forsuch a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance atMansfield. I know you would. If theywere at home to grace the ball, aball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle, William, thank youruncle!”

“My daughters,” replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing,“have their pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but thedance which I think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could webe all assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but theabsence 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 hersurprise and vexation required some minutes’ silence to be settled intocomposure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and herself notconsulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. Shemust be thedoer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared all thought andexertion, and it would all fall upon her. She should have to do thehonours of the evening; and this reflection quickly restored so much of hergood-humour as enabled her to join in with the others, before their happinessand thanks were all expressed.

Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak as muchgrateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could desire.Edmund’s feelings were for the other two. His father had never conferreda favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no objections tomake. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little trouble; and sheassured him “that she was not at all afraid of the trouble; indeed, shecould not imagine there would be any.”

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would thinkfittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she would haveconjectured 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 thebusiness; and as soon as she would listen quietly, could read his list of thefamilies to be invited, from whom he calculated, with all necessary allowancefor the shortness of the notice, to collect young people enough to form twelveor fourteen couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced himto fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be atPortsmouth 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 havingbeen on the point of proposing the 22nd herself, as by far the best day for thepurpose.

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed thing toall whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch, and many a younglady 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 andinexperienced, 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 crosswhich 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 hadworn it in that manner once, would it be allowable at such a time in the midstof all the rich ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies wouldappear in? And yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chaintoo, but the purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear thecross might be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations; enough tosober her spirits even under the prospect of a ball given principally for hergratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit on hersofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra visits from thehousekeeper, 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 herno trouble, and as she had foreseen, “there was, in fact, no trouble inthe business.”

Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being deeplyoccupied in the consideration of two important events now at hand, which wereto fix his fate in life—ordination and matrimony—events of such aserious character as to make the ball, which would be very quickly followed byone of them, appear of less moment in his eyes than in those of any otherperson in the house. On the 23rd he was going to a friend near Peterborough, inthe same situation as himself, and they were to receive ordination in thecourse of the Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, butthe other half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would beestablished, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward thoseduties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he was not alwaysperfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford’s. There were points on whichthey did not quite agree; there were moments in which she did not seempropitious; and though trusting altogether to her affection, so far as to beresolved—almost resolved—on bringing it to a decision within a veryshort time, as soon as the variety of business before him were arranged, and heknew what he had to offer her, he had many anxious feelings, many doubtinghours as to the result. His conviction of her regard for him was sometimes verystrong; he could look back on a long course of encouragement, and she was asperfect in disinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other timesdoubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of heracknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided preferenceof a London life, what could he expect but a determined rejection? unless itwere an acceptance even more to be deprecated, demanding such sacrifices ofsituation and employment on his side as conscience must forbid.

The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough toforego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well enough tomake them no longer essential? And this question, which he was continuallyrepeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a “Yes,” hadsometimes its “No.”

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the“no” and the “yes” had been very recently inalternation. He had seen her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dearfriend’s letter, which claimed a long visit from her in London, and ofthe kindness of Henry, in engaging to remain where he was till January, that hemight convey her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such ajourney with an animation which had “no” in every tone. But thishad occurred on the first day of its being settled, within the first hour ofthe burst of such enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit wasbefore her. He had since heard her express herself differently, with otherfeelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant that sheshould leave her with regret; that she began to believe neither the friends northe pleasures she was going to were worth those she left behind; and thatthough 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 couldnot, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the rest of thefamily were looking forward to with a more equal degree of strong interest.Independent of his two cousins’ enjoyment in it, the evening was to himof no higher value than any other appointed meeting of the two families mightbe. In every meeting there was a hope of receiving farther confirmation of MissCrawford’s attachment; but the whirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was notparticularly favourable to the excitement or expression of serious feelings. Toengage her early for the two first dances was all the command of individualhappiness which he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ballwhich he could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on thesubject, from morning till night.

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still unableto satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to seek the counselof the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and her sister, whoseacknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless; and as Edmund andWilliam were gone to Northampton, and she had reason to think Mr. Crawfordlikewise out, she walked down to the Parsonage without much fear of wanting anopportunity for private discussion; and the privacy of such a discussion was amost important part of it to Fanny, being more than half-ashamed of her ownsolicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting out tocall on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though obliged to insiston turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she explained her business atonce, and observed, that if she would be so kind as to give her opinion, itmight be all talked over as well without doors as within. Miss Crawfordappeared gratified by the application, and after a moment’s thought,urged Fanny’s returning with her in a much more cordial manner thanbefore, and proposed their going up into her room, where they might have acomfortable coze, without disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who were together inthe drawing-room. It was just the plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal ofgratitude on her side for such ready and kind attention, they proceededindoors, and upstairs, and were soon deep in the interesting subject. MissCrawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment and taste,made everything easy by her suggestions, and tried to make everything agreeableby her encouragement. The dress being settled in all its granderparts—“But what shall you have by way of necklace?” said MissCrawford. “Shall not you wear your brother’s cross?” And asshe spoke she was undoing a small parcel, which Fanny had observed in her handwhen they met. Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point: she didnot know how either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She wasanswered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being requestedto chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces. Such had been the parcelwith which Miss Crawford was provided, and such the object of her intendedvisit: and in the kindest manner she now urged Fanny’s taking one for thecross and to keep for her sake, saying everything she could think of to obviatethe scruples which were making Fanny start back at first with a look of horrorat the proposal.

“You see what a collection I have,” said she; “more by halfthan I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but anold necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me.”

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable. But MissCrawford persevered, and argued the case with so much affectionate earnestnessthrough all the heads of William and the cross, and the ball, and herself, asto be finally successful. Fanny found herself obliged to yield, that she mightnot be accused of pride or indifference, or some other littleness; and havingwith modest reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. Shelooked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and wasdetermined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace morefrequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold, prettilyworked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a plainer chain asmore adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing on this, to be chusing whatMiss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfectapprobation; and hastened to complete the gift by putting the necklace roundher, and making her see how well it looked. Fanny had not a word to say againstits becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedinglypleased with an acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, havebeen obliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. MissCrawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a realfriend. “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 inthe first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over to you allthe 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 presentinstantly. 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 quitediverting to her companion, she laid down the necklace again on its cotton, andseemed resolved either to take another or none at all. Miss Crawford thoughtshe had never seen a prettier consciousness. “My dear child,” saidshe, laughing, “what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim thenecklace as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are youimagining he would be too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat anornament which his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there wassuch a throat in the world? or perhaps”—lookingarchly—“you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what I amnow 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 atall believing her, “to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are asunsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace andsay no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother’s need not make thesmallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes none in mywillingness to part with it. He is always giving me something or other. I havesuch innumerable presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to valueor for him to remember half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I haveworn it six times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though youwould be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you havehappened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather partwith and see in your possession than any other. Say no more against it, Ientreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many words.”

Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less happythanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in MissCrawford’s eyes which she could not be satisfied with.

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford’s change ofmanners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he wasgallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to hercousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as he hadcheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in thisnecklace—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 somuch 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 pathbefore.

CHAPTER XXVII

On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this unexpectedacquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some favourite box in theEast room, which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening the door, whatwas her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such asight having never occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.

“Fanny,” said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, andmeeting her with something in his hand, “I beg your pardon for beinghere. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of yourcoming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will findthe beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business, which ismerely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle—a chain forWilliam’s cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has beena delay from my brother’s not being in town by several days so soon as Iexpected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you willlike the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of yourtaste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions, and considerit, 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 thousandfeelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quickened by onesovereign wish, she then called out, “Oh! cousin, stop a moment, praystop!”

He turned back.

“I cannot attempt to thank you,” she continued, in a very agitatedmanner; “thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I canpossibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way isbeyond—”

“If that is all you have to say, Fanny” smiling and turning awayagain.

“No, no, it is not. I want to consult you.”

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into herhand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers’ packing, aplain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forthagain, “Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, preciselywhat I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire topossess. 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 howacceptable it is.”

“My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am mosthappy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time forto-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have nopleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I cansafely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without adrawback.”

Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour withoutsaying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bringdown her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, “But what is it thatyou 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 herrecent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struckwith the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, sogratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could notbut admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it mighthave its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to herplan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fondreflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but whenhe 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 bemortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation thanthe having anything returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonablehope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose apleasure 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’spresent, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it, whenit is not wanted?”

“She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and itshaving been originally her brother’s gift makes no difference; for as shewas not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that account, itought 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 mypurpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William’s crossbeyond all comparison better than the necklace.”

“For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it bea sacrifice; Iam sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give painto one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford’sattentions to you have been—not more than you were justly entitledto—I am the last person to think that couldbe, but theyhave been invariable; and to be returning them with what must have somethingthe airof ingratitude, though I know it could never have themeaning, is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you areengaged to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered withany reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice. Iwould not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose intimacy I havebeen observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose characters there is somuch general resemblance in true generosity and natural delicacy as to make thefew slight differences, resulting principally from situation, no reasonablehindrance to a perfect friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolnessarise,” he repeated, his voice sinking a little, “between the twodearest objects I have on earth.”

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as shecould. She was one of his two dearest—that must support her. But theother: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before, and though ittold her no more than what she had long perceived, it was a stab, for it toldof his own convictions and views. They were decided. He would marry MissCrawford. It was a stab, in spite of every long-standing expectation; and shewas 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 todeserve him, it would be—oh, how different would it be—how far moretolerable! 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 shehad shed many tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;and the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the influence offervent prayers for his happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome allthat was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her affection forEdmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be a presumptionfor which she had not words strong enough to satisfy her own humility. To thinkof him as Miss Crawford might be justified in thinking, would in her beinsanity. To her he could be nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearerthan a friend. Why did such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobatedand 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 MissCrawford’s character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by asound intellect and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty; buthaving also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not be muchwondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on the side ofself-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begunwriting to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes, and reading with thetenderest emotion these words, “My very dear Fanny, you must do me thefavour to accept” locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of thegift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter which she had ever receivedfrom him; she might never receive another; it was impossible that she evershould receive another so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style.Two lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most distinguishedauthor—never more completely blessed the researches of the fondestbiographer. The enthusiasm of a woman’s love is even beyond thebiographer’s. To her, the handwriting itself, independent of anything itmay convey, is a blessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other humanbeing as Edmund’s commonest handwriting gave! This specimen, written inhaste as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of thefirst four words, in the arrangement of “My very dear Fanny,” whichshe could have looked at for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy mixtureof reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down and resume herusual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the usual observanceswithout any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with morekindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often volunteer, forsoon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawford toWilliam, stating that as he found himself obliged to go to London on the morrowfor a few days, he could not help trying to procure a companion; and thereforehoped that if William could make up his mind to leave Mansfield half a dayearlier 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 proposalwas a very pleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travellingpost with four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, inlikening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything infavour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could suggest; andFanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased; for the original planwas 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 gotinto a Portsmouth coach; and though this offer of Mr. Crawford’s wouldrob her of many hours of his company, she was too happy in having Williamspared from the fatigue of such a journey, to think of anything else. SirThomas approved of it for another reason. His nephew’s introduction toAdmiral 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 ithalf the morning, deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer beinghimself to go away.

As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears to havehalf the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had, or must havebeen supposed to have by the many young ladies looking forward to the sameevent in situations more at ease, but under circumstances of less novelty, lessinterest, less peculiar gratification, than would be attributed to her. MissPrice, known only by name to half the people invited, was now to make her firstappearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could behappier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to the trade ofcomingout; and had she known in what light this ball was, ingeneral, considered respecting her, it would very much have lessened hercomfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing wrong and being lookedat. To dance without much observation or any extraordinary fatigue, to havestrength and partners for about half the evening, to dance a little withEdmund, 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 werethe best of her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of along morning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under theinfluence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to make this lastday a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting; Edmund, she had toomuch reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left alone to bear theworrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the housekeeper would have herown way with the supper, and whom shecould not avoid though thehousekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at last to think everything an evilbelonging to the ball, and when sent off with a parting worry to dress, movedas languidly towards her own room, and felt as incapable of happiness as if shehad been allowed no share in it.

As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been about thesame hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and found Edmund in theEast room. “Suppose I were to find him there again to-day!” saidshe to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.

“Fanny,” said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and lookingup, she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself, standing atthe head of a different staircase. He came towards her. “You look tiredand 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 betterhave gone out.”

Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and thoughhe looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had soon ceased tothink of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits: something unconnectedwith her was probably amiss. They proceeded upstairs together, their roomsbeing on the same floor above.

“I come from Dr. Grant’s,” said Edmund presently. “Youmay guess my errand there, Fanny.” And he looked so conscious, that Fannycould think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. “Iwished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances,” was theexplanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her, asshe found she was expected to speak, to utter something like an inquiry as tothe result.

“Yes,” he answered, “she is engaged to me; but” (with asmile that did not sit easy) “she says it is to be the last time that sheever will dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she isnot serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with aclergyman, she says, and she never will. For my own sake, I could wishthere 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 hasoccurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant itso.”

“Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. Iam only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the ball asill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny,” stopping her, by taking herhand, and speaking low and seriously, “you know what all this means. Yousee how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell you, how andwhy I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a kind, kind listener. Ihave been pained by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better of it. Iknow her disposition to be as sweet and faultless as your own, but theinfluence of her former companions makes her seem—gives to herconversation, to her professed opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong. She doesnot thinkevil, but she speaks it, speaks it in playfulness; and thoughI 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 haveinjured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does appearmore than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted.”

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore, after amoment’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. Donot ask advice of me. I am not competent.”

“You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you neednot be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it is thesort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few, I imagine, doask it, but when they want to be influenced against their conscience. I onlywant to talk to you.”

“One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care howyou talk tome. Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The timemay come—”

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

“Dearest Fanny!” cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips withalmost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford’s, “you areall 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 mostimprobable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should, there willbe nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need be afraid of, forI can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they are removed, it must beby changes that will only raise her character the more by the recollection ofthe faults she once had. You are the only being upon earth to whom I should saywhat I have said; but you have always known my opinion of her; you can bear mewitness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talkedover her little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up everyserious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befell me,I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the sincerestgratitude.”

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said enough togive Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known, and with a brighterlook, she answered, “Yes, cousin, I am convinced that youwould beincapable of anything else, though perhaps some might not. I cannot be afraidof hearing anything you wish to say. Do not check yourself. Tell me whateveryou like.”

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid preventedany 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’sfaults and his own despondence. But as it was, they parted with looks on hisside of grateful affection, and with some very precious sensations on hers. Shehad 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 stateabsolutely the reverse; there had been no comfort around, no hope within her.Now everything was smiling. William’s good fortune returned again uponher mind, and seemed of greater value than at first. The ball, too—suchan evening of pleasure before her! It was now a real animation; and she beganto dress for it with much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. Allwent well: she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to thenecklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one givenher by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the cross. Shehad, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for thepurpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful feelings,joined the chain and the cross—those memorials of the two most beloved ofher heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other by everything real andimaginary—and put them round her neck, and seen and felt how full ofWilliam and Edmund they were, she was able, without an effort, to resolve onwearing 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, tointerfere with the stronger claims, the truer kindness of another, she could doher justice even with pleasure to herself. The necklace really looked verywell; and Fanny left her room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself andall about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual degree ofwakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that Fanny, preparingfor a ball, might be glad of better help than the upper housemaid’s, andwhen 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 civilitieswere necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt’s attention almost as much asLady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do themselves.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went down. Tothe former she was an interesting object, and he saw with pleasure the generalelegance of her appearance, and her being in remarkably good looks. Theneatness and propriety of her dress was all that he would allow himself tocommend 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 sentChapman to her.”

“Look well! Oh, yes!” cried Mrs. Norris, “she has good reasonto look well with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she hasbeen, with all the benefit of her cousins’ manners before her. Onlythink, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have beenthe means of giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice of is yourown generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married. What would shehave 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 twoyoung men assured him that the subject might be gently touched again, when theladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she was approved; and theconsciousness of looking well made her look still better. From a variety ofcauses she was happy, and she was soon made still happier; for in following heraunts out of the room, Edmund, who was holding open the door, said, as shepassed him, “You must dance with me, Fanny; you must keep two dances forme; any two that you like, except the first.” She had nothing more towish for. She had hardly ever been in a state so nearly approaching highspirits in her life. Her cousins’ former gaiety on the day of a ball wasno longer surprising to her; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and wasactually practising her steps about the drawing-room as long as she could besafe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken up at first infresh arranging and injuring the noble fire which the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any othercircumstances, but Fanny’s happiness still prevailed. It was but to thinkof 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 acarriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed diffused, and theyall stood about and talked and laughed, and every moment had its pleasure andits hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle in Edmund’scheerfulness, 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 threwher back into herself; and besides the gravity and formality of the first greatcircle, which the manners of neither Sir Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kindto 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, andto curtsey, and speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never summonedto it without looking at William, as he walked about at his ease in thebackground of the scene, and longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The stiffnessof the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and more diffusedintimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody grew comfortable. Fannyfelt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils of civility, would havebeen again most happy, could she have kept her eyes from wandering betweenEdmund and Mary Crawford. Shelooked all loveliness—and what mightnot 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 hisengaging her almost instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on thisoccasion was very much à la mortal, finely chequered. To be secure of apartner at first was a most essential good—for the moment of beginningwas now growing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims asto think that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the last tobe sought after, and should have received a partner only through a series ofinquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would have been terrible; but atthe same time there was a pointedness in his manner of asking her which she didnot like, and she saw his eye glancing for a moment at her necklace, with asmile—she thought there was a smile—which made her blush and feelwretched. And though there was no second glance to disturb her, though hisobject seemed then to be only quietly agreeable, she could not get the betterof 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 couldgradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a partner, a voluntarypartner, secured against the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself for the firsttime near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were immediately and moreunequivocally directed as her brother’s had been, and who was beginningto speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious to get the story over, hastened togive the explanation of the second necklace: the real chain. Miss Crawfordlistened; and all her intended compliments and insinuations to Fanny wereforgotten: she felt only one thing; and her eyes, bright as they had beenbefore, shewing they could yet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure,“Did he? Did Edmund? That was like himself. No other man would havethought of it. I honour him beyond expression.” And she looked around asif longing to tell him so. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladiesout of the room; and Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an armof each, they followed with the rest.

Fanny’s heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even ofMiss Crawford’s feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins wereplaying, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on anythingserious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how everything wasdone.

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 tohear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her, sayingsomething which discovered to Fanny, that shewas to lead the way andopen the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before. Whenever she hadthought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as a matter of course thatEdmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the impression was so strong, thatthough herunclespoke the contrary, she could not help anexclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness, an entreaty even to beexcused. To be urging her opinion against Sir Thomas’s was a proof of theextremity of the case; but such was her horror at the first suggestion, thatshe could actually look him in the face and say that she hoped it might besettled otherwise; in vain, however: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her,and then looked too serious, and said too decidedly, “It must be so, mydear,” for her to hazard another word; and she found herself the nextmoment conducted by Mr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there tobe 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 herthoughts flew to those absent cousins with most unfeigned and truly tenderregret, that they were not at home to take their own place in the room, andhave their share of a pleasure which would have been so very delightful tothem. So often as she had heard them wish for a ball at home as the greatest ofall felicities! And to have them away when it was given—and forherto be opening the ball—and with Mr. Crawford too! She hopedthey would not envy her that distinction now; but when she looked backto the state of things in the autumn, to what they had all been to each otherwhen once dancing in that house before, the present arrangement was almost morethan she could understand herself.

The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the firstdance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried to impart themto her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to have any enjoyment tillshe could suppose herself no longer looked at. Young, pretty, and gentle,however, she had no awkwardnesses that were not as good as graces, and therewere few persons present that were not disposed to praise her. She wasattractive, she was modest, she was Sir Thomas’s niece, and she was soonsaid 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 muchcomplacency; he was proud of his niece; and without attributing all herpersonal beauty, as Mrs. Norris seemed to do, to her transplantation toMansfield, 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 ofrecommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside to saysomething agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he received it as shecould wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and politeness, and slowness ofspeech would allow, and certainly appearing to greater advantage on the subjectthan his lady did soon afterwards, when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa verynear, turned round before she began to dance, to compliment her on MissPrice’s looks.

“Yes, she does look very well,” was Lady Bertram’s placidreply. “Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her.” Notbut that she was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much morestruck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could not getit out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying herbycommendation 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 hadtime for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making upcard-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the chaperonsto 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 withsensations of delightful self-consequence; and, misinterpreting Fanny’sblushes, still thought she must be doing so when she went to her after the twofirst dances, and said, with a significant look, “Perhaps youcantell 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! Butthis is what we all come to. All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I mustapply 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 mustsuppose it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and oftalking of you by the way.”

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss Crawfordwondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious, or thought her odd,or thought her anything rather than insensible of pleasure in Henry’sattentions. 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 muchrather nothave been asked by him again so very soon, and she wished shehad 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 ofthe evening. But it was not to be avoided: he made her feel that she was theobject of all; though she could not say that it was unpleasantly done, thatthere was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when hetalked of William, he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth ofheart which did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of hersatisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw howperfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could walkabout with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy in knowingherself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund stillto look forward to, during the greatest part of the evening, her hand being soeagerly sought after that her indefinite engagement with himwas incontinual perspective. She was happy even when they did take place; but notfrom any flow of spirits on his side, or any such expressions of tendergallantry as had blessed the morning. His mind was fagged, and her happinesssprung from being the friend with whom it could find repose. “I am wornout with civility,” said he. “I have been talking incessantly allnight, 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, ingreat measure, from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning,was peculiarly to be respected, and they went down their two dances togetherwith such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas hadbeen bringing up no wife for his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been in gayspirits when they first danced together, but it was not her gaiety that coulddo him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort; and afterwards, for hefound himself still impelled to seek her again, she had absolutely pained himby her manner of speaking of the profession to which he was now on the point ofbelonging. They had talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she hadridiculed; and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able torefrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerablysatisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet somehappiness 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 morewere pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather thandance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at her side, gavehis orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time Mr. Crawford sat downlikewise.

“Poor Fanny!” cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, andworking away his partner’s fan as if for life, “how soon she isknocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up thesetwo hours. How can you be tired so soon?”

“So soon! my good friend,” said Sir Thomas, producing his watchwith all necessary caution; “it is three o’clock, and your sisteris not used to these sort of hours.”

“Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep aslong 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 benearer her uncle; “I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be thelast time, you know; the last morning.”

“You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-pastnine. 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 wasleaving them, “and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sisterto get up for me.” And in a lower tone to Fanny, “I shallhave only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas oftime and his own very different to-morrow.”

After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the earlybreakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be ofit; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him thatthe suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in greatmeasure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He hada pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thankhim for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself thelast morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though herwishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On thecontrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to haveanything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she was moredisposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than torepine at the counteraction which followed.

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with herinclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. “Advise” washis 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; stoppingat the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, “one moment and nomore,” to view the happy scene, and take a last look at the five or sixdetermined couple who were still hard at work; and then, creeping slowly up theprincipal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless country-dance, feverish withhopes and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed and fatigued, restless andagitated, yet feeling, in spite of everything, that a ball was indeeddelightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking merely ofher health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been sitting by herlong enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife by shewing herpersuadableness.

CHAPTER XXIX

The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss wasgiven, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been verypunctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to thebreakfast-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, thatthe deserted chair of each young man might exercise her tender enthusiasm, andthat the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in William’s plate mightbut divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford’s. Shesat and cried conamoreas her uncle intended, but it wasconamorefraternal and no other. William was gone, and she nowfelt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudesunconnected with him.

Fanny’s disposition was such that she could never even think of her auntNorris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house, withoutreproaching herself for some little want of attention to her when they had beenlast together; much less could her feelings acquit her of having done and saidand 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 badethem good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then allwere gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she hadnobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram—she must talk tosomebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of what had passed, andhad so little curiosity, that it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certainof 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 theMiss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she wasnot sure whether Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or ofWilliam when he said he was the finest young man in the room—somebody hadwhispered something to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it couldbe.” And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications: therest was only a languid “Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he? I did notsee that; I should not know one from the other.” This was verybad. 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 sickmaid, there was peace and good-humour in their little party, though it couldnot boast much beside.

The evening was heavy like the day. “I cannot think what is the matterwith me,” said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. “Ifeel quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must dosomething to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so verystupid.”

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt tillbedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard in theroom for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the game—“Andthatmakes 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 ofthe difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room, and all that partof the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion, noiseand brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room, andeverywhere. Now it was languor, and all but solitude.

A good night’s rest improved her spirits. She could think of William thenext day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity oftalking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a veryhandsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and all the laughs ofplayfulness which are so essential to the shade of a departed ball, she couldafterwards bring her mind without much effort into its everyday state, andeasily conform to the tranquillity of the present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a whole daytogether, and hewas gone on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of everyfamily meeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this must be learned to beendured. He would soon be always gone; and she was thankful that she could nowsit in the same room with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, andeven answer them, without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

“We miss our two young men,” was Sir Thomas’s observation onboth the first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle afterdinner; and in consideration of Fanny’s swimming eyes, nothing more wassaid on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the second it ledto something farther. William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for.“And there is no reason to suppose,” added Sir Thomas, “butthat his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to Edmund, we mustlearn 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 forpermission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best for eachdaughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram, though in her owngood-nature she would not have prevented it, was lamenting the change it madein the prospect of Julia’s return, which would otherwise have taken placeabout this time. A great deal of good sense followed on Sir Thomas’sside, tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement. Everything that aconsiderate parent oughtto feel was advanced for her use; andeverything that an affectionate mother mustfeel in promoting herchildren’s enjoyment was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed toit all with a calm “Yes”; and at the end of a quarter of anhour’s silent consideration spontaneously observed, “Sir Thomas, Ihave been thinking—and I am very glad we took Fanny as we did, for nowthe others are away we feel the good of it.”

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, “Very true. Weshew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face, she isnow a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to her, she is nowquite as necessary to us.”

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram presently; “and it is a comfort tothink 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 thatmay reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows here.”

“And thatis not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should inviteher? Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but shewould not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better offhere; and besides, I cannot do without her.”

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in Mansfieldhad a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young lady, at least,in each family, it brought very different feelings. What was tranquillity andcomfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary. Something arose fromdifference of disposition and habit: one so easily satisfied, the other sounused to endure; but still more might be imputed to difference ofcircumstances. In some points of interest they were exactly opposed to eachother. To Fanny’s mind, Edmund’s absence was really, in its causeand its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was every way painful. She felt the wantof his society every day, almost every hour, and was too much in want of it toderive anything but irritation from considering the object for which he went.He could not have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence thanthis week’s absence, occurring as it did at the very time of herbrother’s going away, of William Price’s going too, and completingthe sort of general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt itkeenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a series ofrain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for. Angry as she waswith Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting on them in defiance ofher (and she had been so angry that they had hardly parted friends at theball), she could not help thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling onhis merit and affection, and longing again for the almost daily meetings theylately had. His absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned suchan absence—he should not have left home for a week, when her owndeparture from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. Shewished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraidshe had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of theclergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong. Shewished such words unsaid with all her heart.

Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had stillmore to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund; when Saturdaycame and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight communication with theother family which Sunday produced, she learned that he had actually writtenhome to defer his return, having promised to remain some days longer with hisfriend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before—if she had been sorry forwhat she said, and feared its too strong effect on him—she now felt andfeared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one disagreeableemotion entirely new to her—jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters; hemight 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 somethingthat she could not bear. Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing, at the endof three or four days, she should now have been leaving Mansfield. It becameabsolutely 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 herway to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemedunconquerable 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, andunless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But at last LadyBertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began,with a voice as well regulated as she could—“And how do youlike your cousin Edmund’s staying away so long? Being the only youngperson at home, I consider youas the greatest sufferer. You must misshim. Does his staying longer surprise you?”

“I do not know,” said Fanny hesitatingly. “Yes; I had notparticularly expected it.”

“Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the generalway 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 verypleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at notseeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the case. Iam looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there will be nothingto 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 somethingbetween compliments and—and love—to suit the sort of friendlyacquaintance we have had together? So many months’ acquaintance! Butcompliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one? Does he give youmuch account of what he is doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is stayingfor?”

“I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe itwas very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I heard wasthat his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to doso. A fewdays longer, or somedays longer; I am not quite surewhich.”

“Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to LadyBertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Whocould write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have beenmore particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sentyou a description of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens arethere?”

“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, tryingto appear gay and unconcerned, “which every woman who plays herself issure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about anyyoung 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 ifthey were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or somethinglike it.”

“I know nothing of the Miss Owens,” said Fanny calmly.

“You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did toneexpress indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has neverseen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; allthe noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I do not like the ideaof leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She does not like mygoing.”

Fanny felt obliged to speak. “You cannot doubt your being missed bymany,” said she. “You will be very much missed.”

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more, andthen laughingly said, “Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed whenit is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I am notfishing; don’t compliment me. If I ammissed, it will appear. Imay 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 shethought must know, and her spirits were clouded again.

“The Miss Owens,” said she, soon afterwards; “suppose youwere to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should youlike it? Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. Andthey are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment forthem. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody’s duty to doas 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 brotheris a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together. He is their lawfulproperty; 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 thanotherwise?”

“No,” said Fanny stoutly, “I do not expect it at all.”

“Not at all!” cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. “I wonder atthat. But I dare say you know exactly—I always imagine youare—perhaps you do not think him likely to marry at all—or not atpresent.”

“No, I do not,” said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either inthe belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from the blushsoon produced from such a look, only said, “He is best off as heis,” and turned the subject.

CHAPTER XXX

Miss Crawford’s uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, andshe walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another week ofthe 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 herown. His still refusing to tell her what he had gone for was but the promotionof gaiety; a day before it might have irritated, but now it was a pleasantjoke—suspected only of concealing something planned as a pleasantsurprise to herself. And the next day didbring a surprise to her. Henryhad said he should just go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back inten minutes, but he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had beenwaiting for him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last mostimpatiently in the sweep, and cried out, “My dear Henry, where can youhave been all this time?” he had only to say that he had been sittingwith 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 alongthe 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 madeup. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite determined tomarry Fanny Price.”

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his consciousnessmight suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views had never entered hissister’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 moresolemnly. The conviction of his determination once admitted, it was notunwelcome. There was even pleasure with the surprise. Mary was in a state ofmind to rejoice in a connexion with the Bertram family, and to be notdispleased with her brother’s marrying a little beneath him.

“Yes, Mary,” was Henry’s concluding assurance. “I amfairly caught. You know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end ofthem. I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in heraffections; 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 firstfeeling; but my second, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that Iapprove your choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as Iwish and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude anddevotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs. Norrisoften talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight of all the family,indeed! And she has some truefriends in it! How theywillrejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When did you begin tothink seriously about her?”

Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though nothingcould be more agreeable than to have it asked. “How the pleasing plaguehad stolen on him” he could not say; and before he had expressed the samesentiment with a little variation of words three times over, his sister eagerlyinterrupted him with, “Ah, my dear Henry, and this is what took you toLondon! This was your business! You chose to consult the Admiral before youmade up your mind.”

But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on anymatrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never pardonablein a young man of independent fortune.

“When Fanny is known to him,” continued Henry, “he will doaton her. She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man asthe Admiral, for she is exactly such a woman as he thinks does not exist in theworld. She is the very impossibility he would describe, if indeed he has nowdelicacy of language enough to embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutelysettled—settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of thematter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my businessyet.”

“Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am inno hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That Mansfieldshould have done so much for—that youshould have found your fatein Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have chosen better. Thereis not a better girl in the world, and you do not want for fortune; and as toher connexions, they are more than good. The Bertrams are undoubtedly some ofthe first people in this country. She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that willbe 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 likeher cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain.”

“Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing—supposing her notto love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)—youwould be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure herall your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would marry youwithoutlove; that is, if there is a girl in the world capable of beinguninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask her to love you, andshe will never have the heart to refuse.”

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell as shecould be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply interesting toher as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to relate but his ownsensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny’s charms. Fanny’s beautyof face and figure, Fanny’s graces of manner and goodness of heart, werethe exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and sweetness of her characterwere warmly expatiated on; that sweetness which makes so essential a part ofevery woman’s worth in the judgment of man, that though he sometimesloves where it is not, he can never believe it absent. Her temper he had goodreason to depend on and to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one ofthe family, excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continuallyexercised her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong.To see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the warmthof her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be more encouraging to aman who had her love in view? Then, her understanding was beyond everysuspicion, quick and clear; and her manners were the mirror of her own modestand elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry Crawford had too much sense not tofeel the worth of good principles in a wife, though he was too littleaccustomed to serious reflection to know them by their proper name; but when hetalked of her having such a steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a highnotion of honour, and such an observance of decorum as might warrant any man inthe fullest dependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what wasinspired by the knowledge of her being well principled and religious.

“I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,” said he;“and thatis what I want.”

Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of FannyPrice was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.

“The more I think of it,” she cried, “the more am I convincedthat you are doing quite right; and though I should never have selected FannyPrice as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is the veryone to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns out a cleverthought indeed. You will both find your good in it.”

“It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not knowher then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put itinto my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has ever yetbeen herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her fromNorthamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in thisneighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years’ lease ofEveringham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could name threepeople now, who would give me my own terms and thank me.”

“Ha!” cried Mary; “settle in Northamptonshire! That ispleasant! Then we shall be all together.”

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid; butthere was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the supposedinmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her in the kindestmanner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.

“You must give us more than half your time,” said he. “Icannot admit Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for weshall 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 veryfully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister many monthslonger.

“You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?”

“Yes.”

“That’s right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: nolonger with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting awayfrom the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his, beforeyou have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned to sit over yourdinner as if it were the best blessing of life! Youare not sensible ofthe gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but, in my estimation, yourmarrying early may be the saving of you. To have seen you grow like the Admiralin word or deed, look or gesture, would have broken my heart.”

“Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has hisfaults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to me. Fewfathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must not prejudiceFanny against him. I must have them love one another.”

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two personsin existence whose characters and manners were less accordant: time woulddiscover it to him; but she could not help thisreflection on theAdmiral. “Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I couldsuppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which my poorill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the marriage, ifpossible; but I know you: I know that a wife you lovedwould be thehappiest of women, and that even when you ceased to love, she would yet find inyou the liberality and good-breeding of a gentleman.”

The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny Pricehappy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the groundwork of hiseloquent answer.

“Had you seen her this morning, Mary,” he continued,“attending with such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demandsof her aunt’s stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colourbeautifully heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seatto finish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that stupidwoman’s service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness, so muchas if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a moment at her owncommand, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is, and one little curlfalling forward as she wrote, which she now and then shook back, and in themidst of all this, still speaking at intervals to me, or listening, andas if she liked to listen, to what I said. Had you seen her so, Mary, you wouldnot have implied the possibility of her power over my heart everceasing.”

“My dearest Henry,” cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in hisface, “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 whatsort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense. I wishthe discovery may do them any good. And they will now see their cousin treatedas she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily ashamed of their ownabominable neglect and unkindness. They will be angry,” he added, after amoment’s silence, and in a cooler tone; “Mrs. Rushworth will bevery 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 andforgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose her feelings more lastingthan other women’s, though Iwas the object of them. Yes, Mary, myFanny will feel a difference indeed: a daily, hourly difference, in thebehaviour of every being who approaches her; and it will be the completion ofmy happiness to know that I am the doer of it, that I am the person to give theconsequence so justly her due. Now she is dependent, helpless, friendless,neglected, forgotten.”

“Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless orforgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her.”

“Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and sois 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 dothey do for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in the world, to what Ishalldo?”

CHAPTER XXXI

Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an earlierhour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were together in thebreakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the very point ofquitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door, and not chusing by anymeans to take so much trouble in vain, she still went on, after a civilreception, a short sentence about being waited for, and a “Let Sir Thomasknow” to the servant.

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without losinganother moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some letters, said,with a most animated look, “I must acknowledge myself infinitely obligedto any creature who gives me such an opportunity of seeing you alone: I havebeen wishing it more than you can have any idea. Knowing as I do what yourfeelings as a sister are, I could hardly have borne that any one in the houseshould share with you in the first knowledge of the news I now bring. He ismade. Your brother is a lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction ofcongratulating you on your brother’s promotion. Here are the letterswhich announce it, this moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to seethem.”

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the expressionof her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of her feelings, theirdoubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took the letters as he gavethem. The first was from the Admiral to inform his nephew, in a few words, ofhis having succeeded in the object he had undertaken, the promotion of youngPrice, and enclosing two more, one from the Secretary of the First Lord to afriend, whom the Admiral had set to work in the business, the other from thatfriend to himself, by which it appeared that his lordship had the very greathappiness of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charleswas much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard forAdmiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price’scommission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made out wasspreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.

While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from one tothe other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus continued, withunfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the event—

“I will not talk of my own happiness,” said he, “great as itis, 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 haveknown before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however. The post waslate this morning, but there has not been since a moment’s delay. Howimpatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject, I will not attemptto describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly disappointed, in not having itfinished while I was in London! I was kept there from day to day in the hope ofit, for nothing less dear to me than such an object would have detained me halfthe time from Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with allthe warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there weredifficulties 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 whatgood hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday, trusting that many postswould not pass before I should be followed by such very letters as these. Myuncle, who is the very best man in the world, has exerted himself, as I knew hewould, after seeing your brother. He was delighted with him. I would not allowmyself yesterday to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral saidin his praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise ofa friend, as this day doesprove it. NowI may say that even Icould not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed bywarmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily bestowed bymy uncle after the evening they had passed together.”

“Has this been all yourdoing, then?” cried Fanny.“Good heaven! how very, very kind! Have you really—was it byyourdesire? I beg your pardon, but I am bewildered. Did AdmiralCrawford apply? How was it? I am stupefied.”

Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an earlierstage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His last journey toLondon had been undertaken with no other view than that of introducing herbrother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral to exert whateverinterest he might have for getting him on. This had been his business. He hadcommunicated it to no creature: he had not breathed a syllable of it even toMary; while uncertain of the issue, he could not have borne any participationof his feelings, but this had been his business; and he spoke with such a glowof what his solicitude had been, and used such strong expressions, was soabounding in the deepestinterest, in twofoldmotives, in viewsandwishesmorethancouldbetold, that Fanny could not haveremained insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heartwas so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen butimperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying only when hepaused, “How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitelyobliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!” She jumped up and moved inhaste towards the door, crying out, “I will go to my uncle. My uncleought 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 herimmediately. “She must not go, she must allow him five minuteslonger,” and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was inthe middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what shewas detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself expectedto believe that she had created sensations which his heart had never knownbefore, and that everything he had done for William was to be placed to theaccount of his excessive and unequalled attachment to her, she was exceedinglydistressed, and for some moments unable to speak. She considered it all asnonsense, as mere trifling and gallantry, which meant only to deceive for thehour; she could not but feel that it was treating her improperly andunworthily, 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 allowherself to shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had been conferringan obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle toher. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude onWilliam’s behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything thatinjured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and twiceattempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said only, with muchagitation, “Don’t, Mr. Crawford, pray don’t! I beg you wouldnot. 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 meaningeven to her, offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance. Itwas so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased; and thoughstill not knowing how to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. Hepressed for an answer.

“No, no, no!” she cried, hiding her face. “This is allnonsense. Do not distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness toWilliam 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 notthinking of me. I know it is all nothing.”

She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard speakingto a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was no time forfarther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at a moment when hermodesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured mind, to stand in the wayof the happiness he sought, was a cruel necessity. She rushed out at anopposite door from the one her uncle was approaching, and was walking up anddown the East room in the utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before SirThomas’s politeness or apologies were over, or he had reached thebeginning 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! Hewas inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits that he could donothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously made her the happiest ofhuman beings, and now he had insulted—she knew not what to say, how toclass, or how to regard it. She would not have him be serious, and yet whatcould excuse the use of such words and offers, if they meant but to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant. Thatwas a fact beyond a doubt, andwithout 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 howunwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully she could esteem himfor his friendship to William!

She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the greatstaircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford’s having leftthe house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go down andbe 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 nowbe 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 himabout William as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, tillshe found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dinethere that very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he mightthink nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to seehim again so soon.

She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hourapproached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for hernot to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered the room. Shecould not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence of circumstances togive her so many painful sensations on the first day of hearing ofWilliam’s promotion.

Mr. Crawford was not only in the room—he was soon close to her. He had anote to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but there was noconsciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her note immediately, gladto have anything to do, and happy, as she read it, to feel that the fidgetingsof her aunt Norris, who was also to dine there, screened her a little fromview.

“MY DEARFANNY,—for so I may nowalways call you, to the infinite relief of a tongue that has been stumbling atMissPricefor at least the last six weeks—I cannot let mybrother go without sending you a few lines of general congratulation, andgiving my most joyful consent and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and withoutfear; there can be no difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that theassurance of my consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with yoursweetest smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than hegoes.

Yours affectionately,
M. C.”

These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read in toomuch haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss Crawford’smeaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on her brother’sattachment, and even to appearto believe it serious. She did not knowwhat to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness in the idea of its beingserious; there was perplexity and agitation every way. She was distressedwhenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke to her much too often; and shewas afraid there was a something in his voice and manner in addressing her verydifferent from what they were when he talked to the others. Her comfort in thatday’s dinner was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and whenSir Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, shewas ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford’sinterpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn her eyes tothe right hand, where he sat, she felt that hiswere immediatelydirected towards her.

She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William was thesubject, for his commission came all from the right hand too, and there waspain in the connexion.

She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in despair ofever getting away; but at last they were in the drawing-room, and she was ableto think as she would, while her aunts finished the subject of William’sappointment in their own style.

Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to Sir Thomasas with any part of it. “NowWilliam would be able to keephimself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was unknownhow much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some difference inherpresents too. She was very glad that she had given William what shedid at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in her power, withoutmaterial inconvenience, just at that time to give him something ratherconsiderable; that is, for her, with herlimited means, for nowit would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin. She knew he must be atsome expense, that he would have many things to buy, though to be sure hisfather and mother would be able to put him in the way of getting everythingvery cheap; but she was very glad she had contributed her mite towardsit.”

“I am glad you gave him something considerable,” said Lady Bertram,with most unsuspicious calmness, “for Igave him only£10.”

“Indeed!” cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. “Upon my word, hemust have gone off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for hisjourney to London either!”

“Sir Thomas told me £10 would be enough.”

Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency, began totake the matter in another point.

“It is amazing,” said she, “how much young people cost theirfriends, what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! Theylittle think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their uncles andaunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are my sisterPrice’s children; take them all together, I dare say nobody would believewhat a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing of what Idofor 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 mustnot forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I shall give him acommission for anything else that is worth having. I wish he may go to the EastIndies, 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 earnestlytrying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There was everythingin the world againsttheir being serious but his words and manner.Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it; all their habits andways of thinking, and all her own demerits. How could shehave excitedserious 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 opento serious impressions, even where pains had been taken to please him; whothought so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who waseverything to everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him? Andfarther, how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her high andworldly notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious naturein such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either. Fanny was ashamedof her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than serious attachment,or serious approbation of it toward her. She had quite convinced herself ofthis before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford joined them. The difficulty was inmaintaining the conviction quite so absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in theroom; for once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she did not know howto class among the common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would havesaid that it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she still tried tobelieve it no more than what he might often have expressed towards her cousinsand fifty other women.

She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She fancied hewas trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever Sir Thomas was outof the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and she carefully refused himevery opportunity.

At last—it seemed an at last to Fanny’s nervousness, though notremarkably late—he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of thesound 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 bedisappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it be onlya line.”

“Oh yes! certainly,” cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste ofembarrassment and of wanting to get away—“I will writedirectly.”

She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing forher 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 anythingso imperfectly understood was most distressing. Quite unpractised in such sortof note-writing, had there been time for scruples and fears as to style shewould have felt them in abundance: but something must be instantly written; andwith only one decided feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anythingreally intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits andhand—

“I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kindcongratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest of yournote I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of the sort, that Ihope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther notice. I have seen toomuch of Mr. Crawford not to understand his manners; if he understood me aswell, he would, I dare say, behave differently. I do not know what I write, butit would be a great favour of you never to mention the subject again. Withthanks for the honour of your note,

I remain, dear Miss Crawford,
&c., &c.”

The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for she foundthat Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was coming towardsher.

“You cannot think I mean to hurry you,” said he, in an undervoice,perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note, “youcannot 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 amoment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to givethatto Miss Crawford.”

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with avertedeyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had nothing to dobut to go in good earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of pain andpleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die with the day; forevery day would restore the knowledge of William’s advancement, whereasthe pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had no doubt that her note mustappear excessively ill-written, that the language would disgrace a child, forher distress had allowed no arrangement; but at least it would assure them bothof her being neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford’sattentions.

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 itseffect 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, ashe was to do, and as he returned to Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it wasnot done already she could not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted nodelay. Fanny had hoped, in the course of his yesterday’s visit, to hearthe day named; but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take placeere long.

Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey, shecould 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. Hiscoming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid seeing him ifpossible; 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 wasstill in the house, there seemed little danger of her being wanted.

She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, andfearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached the Eastroom, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to employherself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go without herbeing obliged to know anything of the matter.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable, whensuddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a heavy step, anunusual step in that part of the house: it was her uncle’s; she knew itas well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began to trembleagain, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever might be thesubject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked if she werethere, and if he might come in. The terror of his former occasional visits tothat room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine heragain in French and English.

She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying toappear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the deficienciesof her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered, said, with muchsurprise, “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 youhad the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable. In yourbedchamber I know you cannothave a fire. Here is some greatmisapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to sit, beit 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 notforbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying something in whichthe words “my aunt Norris” were distinguishable.

“I understand,” cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and notwanting to hear more: “I understand. Your aunt Norris has always been anadvocate, and very judiciously, for young people’s being brought upwithout unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in everything.She is also very hardy herself, which of course will influence her in heropinion of the wants of others. And on another account, too, I can perfectlycomprehend. I know what her sentiments have always been. The principle was goodin itself, but it may have been, and I believe hasbeen, carriedtoo 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 youwill ever harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding whichwill prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging partially bythe event. You will take in the whole of the past, you will consider times,persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that theywere not leastyour friends who were educating and preparing you for that mediocrity ofcondition which seemedto be your lot. Though their caution may proveeventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and of this you may be assured,that every advantage of affluence will be doubled by the little privations andrestrictions that may have been imposed. I am sure you will not disappoint myopinion of you, by failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris with therespect and attention that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, mydear. I must speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain youlong.”

Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment’spause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.

“You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. Ihad not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was shewnin. His errand you may probably conjecture.”

Fanny’s colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that shewas embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking up quiteimpossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther pause proceededin 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, whoseemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all so well, soopenly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling, moreover, his ownreplies, and his own remarks to have been very much to the purpose, wasexceedingly happy to give the particulars of their conversation; and littleaware of what was passing in his niece’s mind, conceived that by suchdetails he must be gratifying her far more than himself. He talked, therefore,for several minutes without Fanny’s daring to interrupt him. She hadhardly even attained the wish to do it. Her mind was in too much confusion. Shehad changed her position; and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of thewindows, was listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. Fora moment he ceased, but she had barely become conscious of it, when, risingfrom his chair, he said, “And now, Fanny, having performed one part of mycommission, and shewn you everything placed on a basis the most assured andsatisfactory, I may execute the remainder by prevailing on you to accompany medownstairs, where, though I cannot but presume on having been no unacceptablecompanion myself, I must submit to your finding one still better worthlistening 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 SirThomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on hearing herexclaim—“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 toconvince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday, and I told him withoutdisguise that it was very disagreeable to me, and quite out of my power toreturn 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 knowhe spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as muchencouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit herself togive. I was very much pleased with what I collected to have been your behaviouron the occasion; it shewed a discretion highly to be commended. But now, whenhe has made his overtures so properly, and honourably—what are yourscruples now?”

“You are mistaken, sir,” cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of themoment 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 Itold him that I would not listen to him, that it was very unpleasant to me inevery 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 notlike to be, I could not bear to be, imputing more than might be intended. Ithought 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 refuseMr. 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 calmdispleasure. “There is something in this which my comprehension does notreach. Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you, with everythingto recommend him: not merely situation in life, fortune, and character, butwith more than common agreeableness, with address and conversation pleasing toeverybody. And he is not an acquaintance of to-day; you have now known him sometime. His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has been doingthatfor your brother, which I should suppose would have been almostsufficient recommendation to you, had there been no other. It is very uncertainwhen my interest might have got William on. He has done it already.”

“Yes,” said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with freshshame; and she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture as heruncle 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. Youmust have observed his attentions; and though you always received them veryproperly (I have no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived them tobe unpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not quiteknow your own feelings.”

“Oh yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always—what I didnot like.”

Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. “This is beyond me,”said he. “This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seenscarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections—”

He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a no, thoughthe sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That, however, in somodest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence; and chusing at least toappear satisfied, he quickly added, “No, no, I know thatis quiteout of the question; quite impossible. Well, there is nothing more to besaid.”

And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His niece wasdeep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare herself against fartherquestioning. She would rather die than own the truth; and she hoped, by alittle reflection, to fortify herself beyond betraying it.

“Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford’s choiceseemed to justify” said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly,“his wishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me. I am anadvocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and wouldhave every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon afterfour-and-twenty as he can. This is so much my opinion, that I am sorry to thinkhow little likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr. Bertram, is to marryearly; but at present, as far as I can judge, matrimony makes no part of hisplans or thoughts. I wish he were more likely to fix.” Here was a glanceat Fanny. “Edmund, I consider, from his dispositions and habits, as muchmore likely to marry early than his brother. He, indeed, I have latelythought, has seen the woman he could love, which, I am convinced, my eldest sonhas 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 ofthe cousins. But the removal of his alarm did his niece no service: as herunaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure increased; and getting up andwalking 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 ofauthority, 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 heartsunk under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probablynon-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on observations,which, for her cousins’ sake, she could scarcely dare mention to theirfather. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria, were so closely implicated inMr. Crawford’s misconduct, that she could not give his character, such asshe believed it, without betraying them. She had hoped that, to a man like heruncle, so discerning, so honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment ofsettled dislikeon her side would have been sufficient. To her infinitegrief she found it was not.

Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling wretchedness, andwith 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, asthinking it my duty to mark my opinion of your conduct, that you havedisappointed every expectation I had formed, and proved yourself of a characterthe very reverse of what I had supposed. For I had, Fanny, as I think mybehaviour must have shewn, formed a very favourable opinion of you from theperiod of my return to England. I had thought you peculiarly free fromwilfulness of temper, self-conceit, and every tendency to that independence ofspirit which prevails so much in modern days, even in young women, and which inyoung women is offensive and disgusting beyond all common offence. But you havenow shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse; that you can and will decidefor yourself, without any consideration or deference for those who have surelysome right to guide you, without even asking their advice. You have shewnyourself very, very different from anything that I had imagined. The advantageor disadvantage of your family, of your parents, your brothers and sisters,never seems to have had a moment’s share in your thoughts on thisoccasion. How theymight be benefited, how theymust rejoice insuch an establishment for you, is nothing to you. You think only ofyourself, and because you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a youngheated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness, you resolve to refuse himat once, without wishing even for a little time to consider of it, a littlemore time for cool consideration, and for really examining your owninclinations; and are, in a wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such anopportunity of being settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, aswill, probably, never occur to you again. Here is a young man of sense, ofcharacter, of temper, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached to you,and seeking your hand in the most handsome and disinterested way; and let metell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer in the world withoutbeing addressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford’s estate, or a tenth partof 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, Ishould have given it to him with superior and more heartfelt satisfaction thanI gave Maria’s to Mr. Rushworth.” After half a moment’spause: “And I should have been very much surprised had either of mydaughters, on receiving a proposal of marriage at any time which might carrywith it only halfthe eligibility of this, immediately andperemptorily, and without paying my opinion or my regard the compliment of anyconsultation, put a decided negative on it. I should have been much surprisedand much hurt by such a proceeding. I should have thought it a gross violationof duty and respect. Youare not to be judged by the same rule. You donot owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if your heart can acquit you ofingratitude—”

He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he was, hewould not press that article farther. Her heart was almost broke by such apicture of what she appeared to him; by such accusations, so heavy, somultiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation! Self-willed, obstinate, selfish,and ungrateful. He thought her all this. She had deceived his expectations; shehad 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 tobe long sorry for this day’s transactions.”

“If it were possible for me to do otherwise” said she, with anotherstrong effort; “but I am so perfectly convinced that I could never makehim happy, and that I should be miserable myself.”

Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of that greatblack word miserable, which served to introduce it, Sir Thomas began tothink a little relenting, a little change of inclination, might have somethingto do with it; and to augur favourably from the personal entreaty of the youngman himself. He knew her to be very timid, and exceedingly nervous; and thoughtit not improbable that her mind might be in such a state as a little time, alittle pressing, a little patience, and a little impatience, a judiciousmixture of all on the lover’s side, might work their usual effect on. Ifthe gentleman would but persevere, if he had but love enough to persevere, SirThomas began to have hopes; and these reflections having passed across his mindand cheered it, “Well,” said he, in a tone of becoming gravity, butof less anger, “well, child, dry up your tears. There is no use in thesetears; they can do no good. You must now come downstairs with me. Mr. Crawfordhas been kept waiting too long already. You must give him your own answer: wecannot expect him to be satisfied with less; and you only can explain to himthe grounds of that misconception of your sentiments, which, unfortunately forhimself, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally unequal to it.”

But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going down tohim, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged it better to indulgeher. His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered a small depression inconsequence; but when he looked at his niece, and saw the state of feature andcomplexion which her crying had brought her into, he thought there might be asmuch lost as gained by an immediate interview. With a few words, therefore, ofno particular meaning, he walked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sitand 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 andungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She was miserable for ever. She had noone 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 herselfish 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 connexionabout her. She could not but feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, ifhe 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 faintat the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without austerity, withoutreproach, and she revived a little. There was comfort, too, in his words, aswell as his manner, for he began with, “Mr. Crawford is gone: he has justleft me. I need not repeat what has passed. I do not want to add to anythingyou may now be feeling, by an account of what he has felt. Suffice it, that hehas behaved in the most gentlemanlike and generous manner, and has confirmed mein a most favourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon myrepresentation of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with thegreatest 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 tospeak with you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request too natural, aclaim too just to be denied. But there is no time fixed; perhaps to-morrow, orwhenever your spirits are composed enough. For the present you have only totranquillise yourself. Check these tears; they do but exhaust you. If, as I amwilling to suppose, you wish to shew me any observance, you will not give wayto these emotions, but endeavour to reason yourself into a stronger frame ofmind. I advise you to go out: the air will do you good; go out for an hour onthe gravel; you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better forair and exercise. And, Fanny” (turning back again for a moment), “Ishall make no mention below of what has passed; I shall not even tell your auntBertram. There is no occasion for spreading the disappointment; say nothingabout it yourself.”

This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of kindness whichFanny felt at her heart. To be spared from her aunt Norris’s interminablereproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude. Anything might be bearablerather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr. Crawford would be lessoverpowering.

She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his advicethroughout, as far as she could; did check her tears; did earnestly try tocompose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She wished to prove to him thatshe did desire his comfort, and sought to regain his favour; and he had givenher another strong motive for exertion, in keeping the whole affair from theknowledge of her aunts. Not to excite suspicion by her look or manner was nowan object worth attaining; and she felt equal to almost anything that mightsave her from her aunt Norris.

She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and going intothe East room again, the first thing which caught her eye was a fire lightedand burning. A fire! it seemed too much; just at that time to be giving hersuch an indulgence was exciting even painful gratitude. She wondered that SirThomas 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, thatso 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!” saidshe, in soliloquy. “Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!”

She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they met atdinner. Her uncle’s behaviour to her was then as nearly as possible whatit 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 wassoon quarrelling with her; and when she found how much and how unpleasantly herhaving 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 thesame 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 asfar as my house with some orders for Nanny,” said she, “which Ihave since, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carrymyself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me thetrouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us know you were goingout. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose, whether you had walkedin the shrubbery or gone to my house.”

“I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place,” saidSir Thomas.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Norris, with a moment’s check, “thatwas very kind of you, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to myhouse. Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with theadvantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her fault. Ifshe would but have let us know she was going out but there is a something aboutFanny, I have often observed it before—she likes to go her own way towork; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes her own independent walkwhenever she can; she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, andindependence, and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her to get thebetter of.”

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be moreunjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same sentiments himself,and he tried to turn the conversation: tried repeatedly before he couldsucceed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to perceive, either now, orat any other time, to what degree he thought well of his niece, or how very farhe was from wishing to have his own children’s merits set off by thedepreciation of hers. She was talking atFanny, and resenting thisprivate walk half through the dinner.

It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more composure toFanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she could have hoped for after sostormy 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 shecould answer; and she was willing to hope, secondly, that her uncle’sdispleasure was abating, and would abate farther as he considered the matterwith more impartiality, and felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, andhow unpardonable, how hopeless, and how wicked it was to marry withoutaffection.

When the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past, shecould not but flatter herself that the subject would be finally concluded, andMr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that everything would soon be as if nosuch subject had existed. She would not, could not believe, that Mr.Crawford’s affection for her could distress him long; his mind was not ofthat sort. London would soon bring its cure. In London he would soon learn towonder at his infatuation, and be thankful for the right reason in her whichhad 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 minutesafterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said, “Sir Thomaswishes to speak with you, ma’am, in his own room.” Then it occurredto her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind which drove thecolour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she was preparing to obey, whenMrs. Norris called out, “Stay, stay, Fanny! what are you about? where areyou going? don’t be in such a hurry. Depend upon it, it is not you whoare wanted; depend upon it, it is me” (looking at the butler); “butyou are so very eager to put yourself forward. What should Sir Thomas want youfor? 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 certainof 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 sheanticipated, 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 topersevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He had vanity, which stronglyinclined him in the first place to think she did love him, though she might notknow it herself; and which, secondly, when constrained at last to admit thatshe did know her own present feelings, convinced him that he should be able intime to make those feelings what he wished.

He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating on anactive, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made her affectionappear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and determined him tohave 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 reasonfor solid attachment; he knew her to have all the worth that could justify thewarmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her conduct at this very time, byspeaking the disinterestedness and delicacy of her character (qualities whichhe believed most rare indeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, andconfirm all his resolutions. He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart toattack. Of thathe had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one whohad never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been guardedby youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty had preventedher from understanding his attentions, and who was still overpowered by thesuddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the novelty of a situationwhich 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 withperseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and he had so muchdelight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very short time, that hernot loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little difficulty to be overcomewas no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather derived spirits from it. He had beenapt 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 anycharm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that he did mean topersevere; but how he could, after such language from her as she felt herselfobliged to use, was not to be understood. She told him that she did not lovehim, could not love him, was sure she never should love him; that such a changewas quite impossible; that the subject was most painful to her; that she mustentreat him never to mention it again, to allow her to leave him at once, andlet it be considered as concluded for ever. And when farther pressed, hadadded, that in her opinion their dispositions were so totally dissimilar as tomake mutual affection incompatible; and that they were unfitted for each otherby nature, education, and habit. All this she had said, and with theearnestness of sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he immediately deniedthere being anything uncongenial in their characters, or anything unfriendly intheir situations; and positively declared, that he would still love, and stillhope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her manner wasincurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it concealed the sternness ofher purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness made every expression ofindifference seem almost an effort of self-denial; seem, at least, to be givingnearly as much pain to herself as to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr.Crawford who, as the clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of MariaBertram, had been her abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to, inwhom she could believe no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of beingagreeable, she had barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr. Crawford who wasaddressing herself with ardent, disinterested love; whose feelings wereapparently become all that was honourable and upright, whose views of happinesswere all fixed on a marriage of attachment; who was pouring out his sense ofher merits, describing and describing again his affection, proving as far aswords could prove it, and in the language, tone, and spirit of a man of talenttoo, that he sought her for her gentleness and her goodness; and to completethe whole, he was now the Mr. Crawford who had procured William’spromotion!

Here was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate! She mighthave disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in the grounds ofSotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he approached her now withrights that demanded different treatment. She must be courteous, and she mustbe compassionate. She must have a sensation of being honoured, and whetherthinking of herself or her brother, she must have a strong feeling ofgratitude. The effect of the whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, andwords intermingled with her refusal so expressive of obligation and concern,that to a temper of vanity and hope like Crawford’s, the truth, or atleast the strength of her indifference, might well be questionable; and he wasnot 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 ofdespair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes of his being lessunreasonable than he professed himself.

Now she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so selfish andungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard for others which hadformerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was again a something of the sameMr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before. How evidently was there a grosswant 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 wasdeficient in. Had her own affections been as free—as perhaps they oughtto have been—he never could have engaged them.

So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing over thattoo great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering at the past andpresent; wondering at what was yet to come, and in a nervous agitation whichmade nothing clear to her but the persuasion of her being never under anycircumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and the felicity of having a fire tosit over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow for aknowledge of what had passed between the young people. He then saw Mr.Crawford, and received his account. The first feeling was disappointment: hehad hoped better things; he had thought that an hour’s entreaty from ayoung man like Crawford could not have worked so little change on agentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was speedy comfort in the determinedviews and sanguine perseverance of the lover; and when seeing such confidenceof 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, thatmight assist the plan. Mr. Crawford’s steadiness was honoured, and Fannywas praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable in the world. AtMansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; he had only to consult hisown judgment and feelings as to the frequency of his visits, at present or infuture. In all his niece’s family and friends, there could be but oneopinion, one wish on the subject; the influence of all who loved her mustincline one way.

Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received withgrateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and hopeful, SirThomas resolved to abstain from all farther importunity with his niece, and toshew no open interference. Upon her disposition he believed kindness might bethe best way of working. Entreaty should be from one quarter only. Theforbearance of her family on a point, respecting which she could be in no doubtof their wishes, might be their surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly, onthis principle, Sir Thomas took the first opportunity of saying to her, with amild gravity, intended to be overcoming, “Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr.Crawford again, and learn from him exactly how matters stand between you. He isa most extraordinary young man, and whatever be the event, you must feel thatyou have created an attachment of no common character; though, young as youare, and little acquainted with the transient, varying, unsteady nature oflove, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck as I am with all that iswonderful in a perseverance of this sort against discouragement. With him it isentirely a matter of feeling: he claims no merit in it; perhaps is entitled tonone. Yet, having chosen so well, his constancy has a respectable stamp. Hadhis choice been less unexceptionable, I should have condemned hispersevering.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Fanny, “I am very sorry that Mr. Crawfordshould 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 Ihave told him so, that it never will be in my power—”

“My dear,” interrupted Sir Thomas, “there is no occasion forthis. Your feelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets must be toyou. There is nothing more to be said or done. From this hour the subject isnever to be revived between us. You will have nothing to fear, or to beagitated about. You cannot suppose me capable of trying to persuade you tomarry against your inclinations. Your happiness and advantage are all that Ihave in view, and nothing is required of you but to bear with Mr.Crawford’s endeavours to convince you that they may not be incompatiblewith his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are on safe ground. I have engagedfor your seeing him whenever he calls, as you might have done had nothing ofthis 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 beoften demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear Fanny, thissubject is closed between us.”

The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with muchsatisfaction. Her uncle’s kind expressions, however, and forbearingmanner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the truth wasunknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at the line of conducthe pursued. He, who had married a daughter to Mr. Rushworth: romantic delicacywas certainly not to be expected from him. She must do her duty, and trust thattime might make her duty easier than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford’s attachmentwould hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady, unceasingdiscouragement from herself would put an end to it in time. How much time shemight, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is another concern. It wouldnot be fair to inquire into a young lady’s exact estimate of her ownperfections.

In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more obliged tomention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly for its being impartedto her aunts; a measure which he would still have avoided, if possible, butwhich became necessary from the totally opposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as toany secrecy of proceeding. He had no idea of concealment. It was all known atthe 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 theprogress of his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessityof making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business withoutdelay; though, on Fanny’s account, he almost dreaded the effect of thecommunication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself. He deprecated hermistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was, by this time, not veryfar from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those well-meaning people who arealways doing mistaken and very disagreeable things.

Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest forbearanceand silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but did observe it. Sheonly looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was: bitterly angry; but she wasmore 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 toone whom she had been always trying to depress.

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than shedeserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see herdispleasure, and not to hear it.

Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a prosperousbeauty, 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 wasvery pretty, which she had been doubting about before, and that she would beadvantageously married, it made her feel a sort of credit in calling her niece.

“Well, Fanny,” said she, as soon as they were alone togetherafterwards, and she really had known something like impatience to be alone withher, and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation;“Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I mustjust speak of it once, I told Sir Thomas I must once, and then Ishall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece.” And looking at hercomplacently, she added, “Humph, we certainly are a handsomefamily!”

Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to assail her onher vulnerable side, she presently answered—

“My dear aunt, youcannot wish me to do differently from what Ihave done, I am sure. Youcannot wish me to marry; for you would missme, 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 asthis comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were marriedto 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 unexceptionableoffer as this.”

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice, which Fannyhad ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years and a half. Itsilenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would be. If heraunt’s feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from attackingher understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative.

“I will tell you what, Fanny,” said she, “I am sure he fellin love with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. Youdid look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you knowyou had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. Ishall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that evening.” And stillpursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added, “And Iwill tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria: the next timePug has a litter you shall have a puppy.”

CHAPTER XXXIV

Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaitinghim. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the appearance of HenryCrawford and his sister walking together through the village as he rode intoit. He had concluded—he had meant them to be far distant. His absence hadbeen extended beyond a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He wasreturning to Mansfield with spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances,and tender associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning on herbrother’s arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionablyfriendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of asseventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in inclination thanany distance could express.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for, had heexpected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport fulfilled as hadtaken him away, he would have expected anything rather than a look ofsatisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was enough to set hisheart in a glow, and to bring him home in the properest state for feeling thefull value of the other joyful surprises at hand.

William’s promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of; andwith 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 cheerfulnessall 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 situationof matters at Mansfield were known to him.

Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in thedining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and when tea atlast brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund again, she feltdreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took her hand, and pressedit kindly; and at that moment she thought that, but for the occupation and thescene which the tea-things afforded, she must have betrayed her emotion in someunpardonable excess.

He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her thatunqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew from it. It wasdesigned only to express his participation in all that interested her, and totell her that he had been hearing what quickened every feeling of affection. Hewas, in fact, entirely on his father’s side of the question. His surprisewas not so great as his father’s at her refusing Crawford, because, sofar from supposing her to consider him with anything like a preference, he hadalways believed it to be rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be takenperfectly unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as moredesirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while honouringher 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 wasmost earnest in hoping, and sanguine in believing, that it would be a match atlast, and that, united by mutual affection, it would appear that theirdispositions were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in each other, as hewas now beginning seriously to consider them. Crawford had been tooprecipitate. He had not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at thewrong end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers,Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile, hesaw enough of Fanny’s embarrassment to make him scrupulously guardagainst 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, SirThomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was reallya necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then ampleopportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree of immediateencouragement for him might be extracted from her manners; and it was solittle, 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 hisfriend’s perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he held her to be worthevery effort of patience, every exertion of mind, but he did not think he couldhave gone on himself with any woman breathing, without something more to warmhis courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hopethat Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for hisfriend 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 weresitting as intently and silently at work as if there were nothing else to carefor. 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 hearingyou coming.” And sure enough there was a book on the table which had theair of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. “She oftenreads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very fine speechof that man’s—what’s his name, Fanny?—when we heardyour footsteps.”

Crawford took the volume. “Let me have the pleasure of finishing thatspeech to your ladyship,” said he. “I shall find itimmediately.” And by carefully giving way to the inclination of theleaves, he did find it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfyLady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of CardinalWolsey, that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help hadFanny 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 toostrong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she was forced tolisten; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme. Togoodreading, however, she had been long used: her uncle read well, hercousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr. Crawford’s reading there was avariety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. The King, the Queen,Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiestknack, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight atwill on the best scene, or the best speeches of each; and whether it weredignity, 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 firsttaught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all hisacting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it cameunexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer inseeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and gratified byseeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which at the beginningseemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand while she satmotionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had appeared so studiouslyto avoid him throughout the day were turned and fixed on Crawford—fixedon him for minutes, fixed on him, in short, till the attraction drewCrawford’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 asever; but it had been enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend, andas he cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny’s secretfeelings too.

“That play must be a favourite with you,” said he; “you readas if you knew it well.”

“It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour,” repliedCrawford; “but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in myhand before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I haveheard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare onegets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an Englishman’sconstitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touchesthem everywhere; one is intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain canopen at a good part of one of his plays without falling into the flow of hismeaning immediately.”

“No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,” saidEdmund, “from one’s earliest years. His celebrated passages arequoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talkShakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but this istotally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in bits andscraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly is, perhaps, notuncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday talent.”

“Sir, you do me honour,” was Crawford’s answer, with a bow ofmock gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praisecould be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praisehad been given in her attention; thatmust content them.

Lady Bertram’s admiration was expressed, and strongly too. “It wasreally like being at a play,” said she. “I wish Sir Thomas had beenhere.”

Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her incompetencyand languor, could feel this, the inference of what her niece, alive andenlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.

“You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford,” saidher ladyship soon afterwards; “and I will tell you what, I think you willhave a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean when youare settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a theatre at your housein 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 evidentlymeant, “That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham.”

Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined notto see it, as to makeit clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of theprotestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a readycomprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than not.

The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men were theonly talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the too commonneglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it, in the ordinaryschool-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet in some instances almostunnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness of men, of sensible andwell-informed men, when suddenly called to the necessity of reading aloud,which had fallen within their notice, giving instances of blunders, andfailures with their secondary causes, the want of management of the voice, ofproper modulation and emphasis, of foresight and judgment, all proceeding fromthe first cause: want of early attention and habit; and Fanny was listeningagain with great entertainment.

“Even in my profession,” said Edmund, with a smile, “howlittle the art of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and gooddelivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however, than thepresent. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among those who wereordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the larger number, to judge by theirperformance, must have thought reading was reading, and preaching waspreaching. It is different now. The subject is more justly considered. It isfelt that distinctness and energy may have weight in recommending the mostsolid truths; and besides, there is more general observation and taste, a morecritical knowledge diffused than formerly; in every congregation there is alarger proportion who know a little of the matter, and who can judge andcriticise.”

Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination; and uponthis being understood, he had a variety of questions from Crawford as to hisfeelings and success; questions, which being made, though with the vivacity offriendly interest and quick taste, without any touch of that spirit of banteror air of levity which Edmund knew to be most offensive to Fanny, he had truepleasure in satisfying; and when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and givehis own as to the properest manner in which particular passages in the serviceshould 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 wouldbe the way to Fanny’s heart. She was not to be won by all that gallantryand wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least, she would not be wonby them nearly so soon, without the assistance of sentiment and feeling, andseriousness on serious subjects.

“Our liturgy,” observed Crawford, “has beauties, which noteven a careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has alsoredundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt. Formyself, at least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I ought tobe” (here was a glance at Fanny); “that nineteen times out oftwenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to have itto read myself. Did you speak?” stepping eagerly to Fanny, and addressingher 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 youmight be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not allowmythoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so?”

“No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to—evensupposing—”

She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be prevailed on toadd 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 nosuch 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 wellthan to compose well; that is, the rules and trick of composition are ofteneran object of study. A thoroughly good sermon, thoroughly well delivered, is acapital gratification. I can never hear such a one without the greatestadmiration and respect, and more than half a mind to take orders and preachmyself. There is something in the eloquence of the pulpit, when it is reallyeloquence, which is entitled to the highest praise and honour. The preacher whocan touch and affect such an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjectslimited, and long worn threadbare in all common hands; who can say anything newor striking, anything that rouses the attention without offending the taste, orwearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one could not, in hispublic 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 lifewithout a sort of envy. But then, I must have a London audience. I could notpreach but to the educated; to those who were capable of estimating mycomposition. And I do not know that I should be fond of preaching often; nowand then, perhaps once or twice in the spring, after being anxiously expectedfor half a dozen Sundays together; but not for a constancy; it would not do fora constancy.”

Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head, andCrawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her meaning; andas 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 bewell tried, he sank as quietly as possible into a corner, turned his back, andtook up a newspaper, very sincerely wishing that dear little Fanny might bepersuaded into explaining away that shake of the head to the satisfaction ofher ardent lover; and as earnestly trying to bury every sound of the businessfrom himself in murmurs of his own, over the various advertisements of “Amost desirable Estate in South Wales”; “To Parents andGuardians”; and a “Capital season’d Hunter.”

Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless as shewas speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund’s arrangements,was trying by everything in the power of her modest, gentle nature, to repulseMr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and inquiries; and he, unrepulsable, waspersisting in both.

“What did that shake of the head mean?” said he. “What was itmeant to express? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what? What had I been sayingto displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly, irreverentlyon the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if I was wrong. I want tobe set right. Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one moment put down your work. Whatdid 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 samequestions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.

“How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how youcan—”

“Do I astonish you?” said he. “Do you wonder? Is thereanything in my present entreaty that you do not understand? I will explain toyou instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me aninterest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity. I will notleave 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 engagein 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 itwith anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did you think I ought?”

“Perhaps, sir,” said Fanny, wearied at last intospeaking—“perhaps, sir, I thought it was a pity you did not alwaysknow 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 itup; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an extremity ofreproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was only a change from oneobject of curiosity and one set of words to another. He had always something toentreat the explanation of. The opportunity was too fair. None such hadoccurred since his seeing her in her uncle’s room, none such might occuragain before his leaving Mansfield. Lady Bertram’s being just on theother side of the table was a trifle, for she might always be considered asonly half-awake, and Edmund’s advertisements were still of the firstutility.

“Well,” said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions andreluctant answers; “I am happier than I was, because I now understandmore clearly your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by thewhim of the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an opinion, nowonder that—But we shall see.—It is not by protestations that Ishall endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by telling you that myaffections are steady. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance, timeshall speak for me. Theyshall prove that, as far as you can be deservedby anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior in merit; allthatI know. You have qualities which I had not before supposed to existin such a degree in any human creature. You have some touches of the angel inyou beyond what—not merely beyond what one sees, because one never seesanything like it—but beyond what one fancies might be. But still I am notfrightened. It is not by equality of merit that you can be won. That is out ofthe question. It is he who sees and worships your merit the strongest, wholoves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build myconfidence. By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once convincedthat my attachment is what I declare it, I know you too well not to entertainthe warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay” (seeing her drawback displeased), “forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet no right; but bywhat other name can I call you? Do you suppose you are ever present to myimagination under any other? No, it is ‘Fanny’ that I think of allday, 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 atleast trying to get away in spite of all the too public opposition she foresawto it, had it not been for the sound of approaching relief, the very soundwhich 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 andmind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She was at liberty, she was busy, shewas protected.

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who mightspeak and hear. But though the conference had seemed full long to him, andthough on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation, he inclined tohope that so much could not have been said and listened to without some profitto the speaker.

CHAPTER XXXV

Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse whether hersituation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned between them or not; andthat if she did not lead the way, it should never be touched on by him; butafter a day or two of mutual reserve, he was induced by his father to changehis 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 effortfor the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his professions and vowsof 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 ofconstancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not tryinghim too long.

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he wantedto know Fanny’s feelings. She had been used to consult him in everydifficulty, 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; whomelse had she to open her heart to? If she did not need counsel, she must needthe comfort of communication. Fanny estranged from him, silent and reserved,was an unnatural state of things; a state which he must break through, andwhich 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 speakingto her alone,” was the result of such thoughts as these; and upon SirThomas’s information of her being at that very time walking alone in theshrubbery, he instantly joined her.

“I am come to walk with you, Fanny,” said he. “ShallI?” Drawing her arm within his. “It is a long while since we havehad 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 acomfortable walk, something more is necessary than merely pacing this graveltogether. You must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I knowwhat you are thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to hear of itfrom everybody but Fanny herself?”

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, “If you hear of it fromeverybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell.”

“Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tellme them. I do not mean to press you, however. If it is not what you wishyourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief.”

“I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief intalking of what I feel.”

“Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I daresay that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as much alike asthey have been used to be: to the point—I consider Crawford’sproposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return hisaffection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should wish youcould return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done exactly as you ought inrefusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us here?”

“Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. Thisis such a comfort!”

“This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. Buthow could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me anadvocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless in general on suchmatters, 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 besorry, I may be surprised—though hardly that, for you had not hadtime to attach yourself—but I think you perfectly right. Can it admit ofa question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love him; nothingcould 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 whowished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here. Crawford’sis no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of creating that regardwhich 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 perfectmodel of a woman which I have always believed you born for.”

“Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me.” And shespoke with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at therecollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him reply,“Never! Fanny!—so very determined and positive! This is not likeyourself, your rational self.”

“I mean,” she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, “that IthinkI never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think Inever 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 hisintentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your earlyattachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get your heart forhis own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon things animate andinanimate, which so many years’ growth have confirmed, and which areconsiderably tightened for the moment by the very idea of separation. I knowthat the apprehension of being forced to quit Mansfield will for a time bearming you against him. I wish he had not been obliged to tell you what he wastrying for. I wish he had known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I thinkwe should have won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge togethercould 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 byhis steady affection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you havenot the wishto love him—the natural wish of gratitude. You musthave some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your ownindifference.”

“We are so totally unlike,” said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer,“we are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that Iconsider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy together,even if I couldlike 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 arequite enough alike. You havetastes in common. You have moral andliterary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent feelings;and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to Shakespeare theother night, will think you unfitted as companions? You forget yourself: thereis a decided difference in your tempers, I allow. He is lively, you areserious; but so much the better: his spirits will support yours. It is yourdisposition to be easily dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than theyare. His cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees difficulties nowhere: andhis pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your being sofar unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make against the probabilityof your happiness together: do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that it israther a favourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers hadbetter be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, inthe inclination for much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to besilent, to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition here is, I am thoroughlyconvinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes, of course;and a very close resemblance in all those points would be the likeliest way toproduce an extreme. A counteraction, gentle and continual, is the bestsafeguard of manners and conduct.”

Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford’spower was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from the hourof his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had dined at theParsonage only the preceding day.

After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny, feeling itdue to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, “It is not merely intemperthat I consider him as totally unsuited to myself; though, inthatrespect, I think the difference between us too great, infinitelytoo great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is something in him which Iobject 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 himbehaving, as it appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly—I mayspeak 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 payingattentions to my cousin Maria, which—in short, at the time of the play, Ireceived 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 ofgeneral folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Mariawas wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong asmyself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the foolwith my eyes open.”

“As a bystander,” said Fanny, “perhaps I saw more than youdid; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous.”

“Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the wholebusiness. 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 Juliadid not think he waspaying her attentions.”

“Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love withJulia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I dojustice to my sisters’ good qualities, I think it very possible that theymight, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford, and mightshew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfectly prudent. I canremember that they were evidently fond of his society; and with suchencouragement, 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 isclear that he had no pretensions: his heart was reserved for you. And I mustsay, that its being for you has raised him inconceivably in my opinion. It doeshim the highest honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing ofdomestic happiness and pure attachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. Itproves 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 serioussubjects.”

“Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects, whichI believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise, with such aneducation and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed, which both have had, isit not wonderful that they should be what they are? Crawford’sfeelings, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto been too much hisguides. Happily, those feelings have generally been good. You will supply therest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach himself to such acreature—to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has agentleness of character so well adapted to recommend them. He has chosen hispartner, indeed, with rare felicity. He will make you happy, Fanny; I know hewill make you happy; but you will make him everything.”

“I would not engage in such a charge,” cried Fanny, in a shrinkingaccent; “in such an office of high responsibility!”

“As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everythingtoo much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into differentfeelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess myself sincerelyanxious 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 ofmy having no common interest in Crawford.”

Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked ontogether some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund first beganagain—

“I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing everything inso just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet I was afraid of hernot estimating your worth to her brother quite as it deserved, and of herregretting that he had not rather fixed on some woman of distinction orfortune. I was afraid of the bias of those worldly maxims, which she has beentoo much used to hear. But it was very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, justas she ought. She desires the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. Wehad a long talk about it. I should not have mentioned the subject, though veryanxious to know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutesbefore she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and sweetpeculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are so much a partof 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 bythemselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you, Fanny, tillCrawford 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 beprepared 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 aright to everything he may wish for, at the first moment. She is hurt, as youwould 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 talkedof rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not forresentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise; I wish youcould have seen her countenance, when she said that you shouldbeHenry’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 mostsisterly cordiality.”

“And Mrs. Grant, did she say—did she speak; was she there all thetime?”

“Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of yourrefusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. That you could refuse such a manas Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I said what I could foryou; but in good truth, as they stated the case—you must prove yourselfto be in your senses as soon as you can by a different conduct; nothing elsewill satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have done. Do not turn away fromme.”

“I shouldhave thought,” said Fanny, after a pause ofrecollection and exertion, “that every woman must have felt thepossibility of a man’s not being approved, not being loved by some one ofher sex at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all theperfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that aman must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. But, evensupposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims which hissisters think he has, how was I to be prepared to meet him with any feelinganswerable to his own? He took me wholly by surprise. I had not an idea thathis behaviour to me before had any meaning; and surely I was not to be teachingmyself to like him only because he was taking what seemed very idle notice ofme. In my situation, it would have been the extreme of vanity to be formingexpectations 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 tobe—to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How was I tohave an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for? His sistersshould consider me as well as him. The higher his deserts, the more improperfor me ever to have thought of him. And, and—we think very differently ofthe nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so very soon capable ofreturning 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 explanationwhich I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs. Grant, and they wereboth better satisfied, though your warm-hearted friend was still run away witha little by the enthusiasm of her fondness for Henry. I told them that you wereof all human creatures the one over whom habit had most power and noveltyleast; and that the very circumstance of the novelty of Crawford’saddresses was against him. Their being so new and so recent was all in theirdisfavour; that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used to; and agreat deal more to the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of yourcharacter. Miss Crawford made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for herbrother. 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 tenyears’ happy marriage.”

Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Herfeelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been doing wrong: saying toomuch, overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary; in guardingagainst one evil, laying herself open to another; and to have MissCrawford’s liveliness repeated to her at such a moment, and on such asubject, was a bitter aggravation.

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved toforbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name of Crawfordagain, except as it might be connected with what mustbe agreeable toher. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed—“They go onMonday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either to-morrow orSunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a trifle of being persuadedto stay at Lessingby till that very day! I had almost promised it. What adifference it might have made! Those five or six days more at Lessingby mighthave been felt all my life.”

“You were near staying there?”

“Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had Ireceived any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all going on, Ibelieve I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that had happenedhere 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 wereall very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with me, andthere 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 amspoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected girls willnot do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They are two distinctorders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me too nice.”

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks, itcould not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led her directly, withthe kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the house.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny couldtell, 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’sside, and time must be given to make the idea first familiar, and thenagreeable to her. She must be used to the consideration of his being in lovewith 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; andrecommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther attempts toinfluence or persuade; but that everything should be left to Crawford’sassiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund’s account ofFanny’s disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had allthose feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that shehad; for, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could nothelp fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were necessaryfor her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving his addressesproperly 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 MissCrawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terrorof it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of whatshe said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was in every wayan object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her penetration, and her happinesswere all fearful to encounter; and the dependence of having others present whenthey met was Fanny’s only support in looking forward to it. She absentedherself 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 suddenattack.

She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when MissCrawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford looking andspeaking 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-hourof moderate agitation. But here she hoped too much; Miss Crawford was not theslave of opportunity. She was determined to see Fanny alone, and therefore saidto her tolerably soon, in a low voice, “I must speak to you for a fewminutes somewhere”; words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulsesand all her nerves. Denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission, onthe 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 onMiss Crawford’s side. She immediately shook her head at Fanny with arch,yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed hardly able to helpbeginning directly. She said nothing, however, but, “Sad, sad girl! I donot know when I shall have done scolding you,” and had discretion enoughto reserve the rest till they might be secure of having four walls tothemselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and took her guest to theapartment which was now always fit for comfortable use; opening the door,however, with a most aching heart, and feeling that she had a more distressingscene before her than ever that spot had yet witnessed. But the evil ready toburst on her was at least delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford’sideas; by the strong effect on her mind which the finding herself in the Eastroom 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 stoppingto look about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, sheadded, “Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Yourcousin came too; and we had a rehearsal. You were our audience and prompter. Adelightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we were, just in this partof the room: here was your cousin, here was I, here were the chairs. Oh! whywill such things ever pass away?”

Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirelyself-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.

“The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of itso very—very—what shall I say? He was to be describing andrecommending matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as demure andcomposed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches. ‘When twosympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called a happylife.’ I suppose no time can ever wear out the impression I have of hislooks and voice as he said those words. It was curious, very curious, that weshould have such a scene to play! If I had the power of recalling any one weekof my existence, it should be that week—that acting week. Say what youwould, Fanny, it should be that; for I never knew such exquisitehappiness in any other. His sturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweetbeyond expression. But alas, that very evening destroyed it all. That veryevening brought your most unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to seeyou? Yet, Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of SirThomas, though I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justicenow. He is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sobersadness, I believe I now love you all.” And having said so, with a degreeof tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her before, andnow 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 mayperceive,” said she presently, with a playful smile, “but it isover 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 comesto the point.” And embracing her very affectionately, “Good, gentleFanny! when I think of this being the last time of seeing you for I do not knowhow long, I feel it quite impossible to do anything but love you.”

Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her feelingscould seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word “last.”She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she possibly could; andMiss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of such emotion, hung abouther with fondness, and said, “I hate to leave you. I shall see no onehalf so amiable where I am going. Who says we shall not be sisters? I know weshall. I feel that we are born to be connected; and those tears convince methat you feel it too, dear Fanny.”

Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, “But you are onlygoing from one set of friends to another. You are going to a very particularfriend.”

“Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But Ihave not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of the friendsI am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the Bertrams in general. Youhave all so much more heartamong you than one finds in the world atlarge. 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 withMrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a much better time for thevisit, but now I cannot put her off. And when I have done with her I must go toher sister, Lady Stornaway, because shewas rather my most particularfriend of the two, but I have not cared much for herthese threeyears.”

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each thoughtful: Fannymeditating on the different sorts of friendship in the world, Mary on somethingof less philosophic tendency. Shefirst spoke again.

“How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, andsetting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea whereaboutsit was! How well I remember what I was thinking of as I came along, and mylooking in and seeing you here sitting at this table at work; and then yourcousin’s astonishment, when he opened the door, at seeing me here! To besure, your uncle’s returning that very evening! There never was anythingquite like it.”

Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she thusattacked her companion.

“Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of onewho is always thinking of you. Oh! that I could transport you for a short timeinto our circle in town, that you might understand how your power over Henry isthought of there! Oh! the envyings and heartburnings of dozens and dozens; thewonder, the incredulity that will be felt at hearing what you have done! For asto secrecy, Henry is quite the hero of an old romance, and glories in hischains. You should come to London to know how to estimate your conquest. If youwere to see how he is courted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now, I amwell aware that I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence ofhis 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 afirst wife, whom she is wild to get married, and wants Henry to take. Oh! shehas been trying for him to such a degree. Innocent and quiet as you sit here,you cannot have an idea of the sensationthat you will be occasioning,of the curiosity there will be to see you, of the endless questions I shallhave to answer! Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes andyour teeth, and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaretwere married, for my poor friend’s sake, for I look upon the Frasers tobe about as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it was a mostdesirable match for Janet at the time. We were all delighted. She could not dootherwise than accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing; but he turnsout ill-tempered and exigeant, and wants a young woman, a beautifulyoung woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself. And my friend doesnot 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 veryill-bred. In their house I shall call to mind the conjugal manners of MansfieldParsonage with respect. Even Dr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in mysister, and a certain consideration for her judgment, which makes one feelthere isattachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. Ishall be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife, Sir ThomasBertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor Janet has been sadlytaken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side: she did not run intothe match inconsiderately; there was no want of foresight. She took three daysto consider of his proposals, and during those three days asked the advice ofeverybody connected with her whose opinion was worth having, and especiallyapplied to my late dear aunt, whose knowledge of the world made her judgmentvery generally and deservedly looked up to by all the young people of heracquaintance, and she was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. This seems as ifnothing were a security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much to say formy friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake ofthat horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as Mr.Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character. Ihadmy doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even theair of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye, Flora Ross wasdying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I to attempt to tellyou of all the women whom I have known to be in love with him, I should neverhave done. It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can think of him withanything 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 asmight warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.

“Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take itscourse. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutelyunprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is notpossible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some surmisesas to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to please you byevery attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you at the ball? And thenbefore the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received it just as it was meant. Youwere 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, thatwas not fair.”

“Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am ashamedto say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to act on hisproposal for both your sakes.”

“I will not say,” replied Fanny, “that I was not half afraidat the time of its being so, for there was something in your look thatfrightened me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it atfirst—indeed, indeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had Ihad an idea of it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As toyour brother’s behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity: Ihad been sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or three weeks; but thenI considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being his way, andwas as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any serious thoughts ofme. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passingbetween 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 ingallantries which did mean nothing.”

“Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and caredvery 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 tobe said, that very few young ladies have any affections worth caring for. Andthen, Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has been shot at by so many; of havingit in one’s power to pay off the debts of one’s sex! Oh! I am sureit 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 anywoman’s feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered thana stander-by can judge of.”

“I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he hasgot you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But this I willsay, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little in love with him, is nothalf so dangerous to a wife’s happiness as a tendency to fall in lovehimself, which he has never been addicted to. And I do seriously and trulybelieve that he is attached to you in a way that he never was to any womanbefore; that he loves you with all his heart, and will love you as nearly forever as possible. If any man ever loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will doas 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 Marypresently, “than when he had succeeded in getting your brother’scommission.”

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 hehad to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours; and thereare so many young men’s claims to be attended to in the same way, that afriendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put by. What a happycreature William must be! I wish we could see him.”

Poor Fanny’s mind was thrown into the most distressing of all itsvarieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always themost powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and she satthinking 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 notforget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellentFanny, for though we shall nominally part in the breakfast-parlour, I must takeleave of you here. And I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, andtrusting that when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may openour hearts to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve.”

A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied thesewords.

“I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerablysoon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your eldestcousin, 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 impossiblefor her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised.There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition waspeculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto knownso little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford’s. Besides,there was gratitude towards her, for having made their tête-à-têtesomuch less painful than her fears had predicted.

It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Hersecret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she couldresign herself to almost everything.

In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some timewith them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, herheart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel.Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidentlyoppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see himagain 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 bedenied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he hadleft the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship hadpassed.

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 ofthose attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She hadtasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that theloss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regretsin her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with whatsuccess. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits ornot. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond hisdiscrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; andtherefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the presentoccasion, 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 littleunreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford’s sister, the friend andcompanion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. Hewondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of her, and had so littlevoluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief baneof Fanny’s comfort. If she could have believed Mary’s future fateas unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother’s shouldbe, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was muchinclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the moreshe recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everythingwas now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford’s marrying Edmund than it hadever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers lessequivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away,nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition wereequally got over—and equally without apparent reason. It could only beimputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded tolove, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as somebusiness relative to Thornton Lacey were completed—perhaps within afortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with heragain, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as hisoffer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospectof it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently ofself.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiablesensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; stillshewn 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 deserveEdmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a secondfeeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages forlooking on the chance of Miss Crawford’s future improvement as nearlydesperate, for thinking that if Edmund’s influence in this season of lovehad already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating hernotions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony.

Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, andimpartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford’s nature thatparticipation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt theopinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such wereFanny’s persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could neverspeak 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 seethe 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; andhe was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely andindubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approachhe 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 toNorthamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because thelatest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, hadnot cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniformremained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chanceof seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer’sfeelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for whatcan 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 beforehim? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a schemewhich 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, andspend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in oneof his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before heabsolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it everyway, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, andcould not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highlyagreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive“then so it shall be” closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomasretiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over andabove what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending heraway 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 herto go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of homebefore her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies andluxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and inclineher to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, andequal comfort, of which she had the offer.

It was a medicinal project upon his niece’s understanding, which he mustconsider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in theabode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing andjudging. Her father’s house would, in all probability, teach her thevalue of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happierwoman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attackof them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first madeher the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom shehad been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months tothe scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of herjourney, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of hisremaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must havebeen 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 moreinclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could onlythank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoymentso suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of whatshe felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothedin words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she hadsuffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and itseemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown outof the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, andmore loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fearor restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be atpeace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could befancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with afondness that could be but half acknowledged.

Edmund, too—to be two months from him(and perhaps she might beallowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailedby his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowinghis heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reasonherself 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 hardto bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram’s being comfortablewithout her. She was of use to no one else; but thereshe might bemissed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of thearrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and whatonly hecould have accomplished at all.

But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on anymeasure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking onthe subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny’s sometimesseeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it ratherfrom submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced ofvery little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and thereforethat she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flowof her own meditations, unbiased by his bewildering statements, she could notacknowledge any necessity for Fanny’s ever going near a father and motherwho had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as tothe not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris’s discussion was the pointattempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting anysuch thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it asacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs.Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very wellspared—shebeing ready to give up all her own time to her asrequested—and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.

“That may be, sister,” was all Lady Bertram’s reply. “Idare 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 simplelines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of seeing herchild again, as to confirm all the daughter’s views of happiness in beingwith her—convincing her that she should now find a warm and affectionatefriend in the “mama” who had certainly shewn no remarkable fondnessfor her formerly; but this she could easily suppose to have been her own faultor her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the helplessness andfretfulness of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable in wanting a larger sharethan any one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew better how to beuseful, and how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied bythe incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would beleisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what motherand daughter ought to be to each other.

William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the greatestpleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he sailed, andperhaps find her there still when he came in from his first cruise. Andbesides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before she went out ofharbour—the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in theservice—and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too, whichhe quite longed to shew her.

He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a greatadvantage to everybody.

“I do not know how it is,” said he; “but we seem to want someof your nice ways and orderliness at my father’s. The house is always inconfusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You will tellmy mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to Susan, and youwill teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you. How right andcomfortable it will all be!”

By the time Mrs. Price’s answer arrived, there remained but a very fewdays more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days the youngtravellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of their journey, forwhen the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs. Norris found that all heranxiety to save her brother-in-law’s money was vain, and that in spite ofher wishes and hints for a less expensive conveyance of Fanny, they were totravel post; when she saw Sir Thomas actually give William notes for thepurpose, she was struck with the idea of there being room for a third in thecarriage, and suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go with them, to goand see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must saythat she had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would besuch an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear sister Price for morethan twenty years; and it would be a help to the young people in their journeyto have her older head to manage for them; and she could not help thinking herpoor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind of her not to come by such anopportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at once. Withwoeful countenances they looked at each other. Their suspense lasted an hour ortwo. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs. Norris was left to settlethe matter by herself; and it ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew andniece, in the recollection that she could not possibly be spared from MansfieldPark at present; that she was a great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and LadyBertram for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for aweek, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that ofbeing 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 backagain. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the disappointment of hermissing such an opportunity, and another twenty years’ absence, perhaps,begun.

Edmund’s plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence ofFanny’s. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as hisaunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but he could notleave his father and mother just when everybody else of most importance totheir comfort was leaving them; and with an effort, felt but not boasted of, hedelayed for a week or two longer a journey which he was looking forward to withthe 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 whichMiss Crawford’s name would ever be mentioned between them with anyremains of liberty. Once afterwards she was alluded to by him. Lady Bertram hadbeen telling her niece in the evening to write to her soon and often, andpromising to be a good correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenientmoment, then added in a whisper, “And Ishall write to you, Fanny,when I have anything worth writing about, anything to say that I think you willlike 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 shelooked up at him, would have been decisive.

For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund shouldbe a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet gone through allthe changes of opinion and sentiment which the progress of time and variationof circumstances occasion in this world of changes. The vicissitudes of thehuman mind had not yet been exhausted by her.

Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last evening atMansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was completely sad atparting. She had tears for every room in the house, much more for every belovedinhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because she would miss her; she kissed thehand of her uncle with struggling sobs, because she had displeased him; and asfor Edmund, she could neither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last momentcame with him; and it was not till it was over that she knew he wasgiving her the affectionate farewell of a brother.

All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in themorning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast, William andFanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William, soonproduced their natural effect on Fanny’s spirits, when Mansfield Park wasfairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was ended, and they wereto quit Sir Thomas’s carriage, she was able to take leave of the oldcoachman, and send back proper messages, with cheerful looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end. Everythingsupplied an amusement to the high glee of William’s mind, and he was fullof frolic and joke in the intervals of their higher-toned subjects, all ofwhich ended, if they did not begin, in praise of the Thrush, conjectures howshe would be employed, schemes for an action with some superior force, which(supposing the first lieutenant out of the way, and William was not verymerciful to the first lieutenant) was to give himself the next step as soon aspossible, or speculations upon prize-money, which was to be generouslydistributed at home, with only the reservation of enough to make the littlecottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny were to pass all their middle andlater life together.

Fanny’s immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made nopart of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and from his heartlamented that his sister’s feelings should be so cold towards a man whomhe must consider as the first of human characters; but he was of an age to beall for love, and therefore unable to blame; and knowing her wish on thesubject, he would not distress her by the slightest allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She hadheard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which had passed sincetheir leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had been a few lines fromhimself, warm and determined like his speeches. It was a correspondence whichFanny found quite as unpleasant as she had feared. Miss Crawford’s styleof writing, lively and affectionate, was itself an evil, independent of whatshe was thus forced into reading from the brother’s pen, for Edmund wouldnever rest till she had read the chief of the letter to him; and then she hadto 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, somuch of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it meantfor 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 manshe did not love, and obliging her to administer to the adverse passion of theman she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here, too, her present removal promisedadvantage. When no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted thatMiss Crawford would have no motive for writing strong enough to overcome thetrouble, and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle intonothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded in herjourney safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could rationally behoped in the dirty month of February. They entered Oxford, but she could takeonly a hasty glimpse of Edmund’s college as they passed along, and madeno stop anywhere till they reached Newbury, where a comfortable meal, unitingdinner 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, andno delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the environs of Portsmouthwhile there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around her, and wonder at thenew buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and entered the town; and the lightwas only beginning to fail as, guided by William’s powerful voice, theywere rattled into a narrow street, leading from the High Street, and drawn upbefore the door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The moment theystopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in waiting for them at thedoor, stepped forward, and more intent on telling the news than giving them anyhelp, immediately began with, “The Thrush is gone out of harbour, pleasesir, and one of the officers has been here to—” She was interruptedby a fine tall boy of eleven years old, who, rushing out of the house, pushedthe maid aside, and while William was opening the chaise-door himself, calledout, “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 beautifulsight. 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 theThrush’s boats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would behere in time to go with him.”

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was all thevoluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made no objection to herkissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing farther particulars ofthe Thrush’s going out of harbour, in which he had a strong right ofinterest, 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, andin her mother’s arms, who met her there with looks of true kindness, andwith features which Fanny loved the more, because they brought her auntBertram’s before her, and there were her two sisters: Susan, a well-grownfine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of the family, aboutfive—both glad to see her in their way, though with no advantage ofmanner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want. Would they but loveher, she should be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction was ofits being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood for a momentexpecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was no other door, and thatthere 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 tothe street-door, to welcome William. “Oh! my dear William, how glad I amto see you. But have you heard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbouralready; three days before we had any thought of it; and I do not know what Iam to do about Sam’s things, they will never be ready in time; for shemay have her orders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now youmust be off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a worry aboutyou; and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a comfortable eveningwith you, and here everything comes upon me at once.”

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for thebest; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to hurry awayso soon.

“To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I mighthave sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat ashore, I hadbetter go off at once, and there is no help for it. Whereabouts does the Thrushlay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no matter; here’s Fanny in theparlour, and why should we stay in the passage? Come, mother, you have hardlylooked at your own dear Fanny yet.”

In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter again, andcommented a little on her growth, began with very natural solicitude to feelfor their fatigues and wants as travellers.

“Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? Ibegan to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been watching for youthis half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? And what would you liketo have now? I could not tell whether you would be for some meat, or only adish of tea, after your journey, or else I would have got something ready. Andnow 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 inthe street. We were better off in our last house. Perhaps you would like sometea as soon as it can be got.”

They both declared they should prefer it to anything. “Then, Betsey, mydear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on; and tellher to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could get the bellmended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger.”

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her fine newsister.

“Dear me!” continued the anxious mother, “what a sad fire wehave got, and I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your chairnearer, my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I toldher to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken care ofthe fire.”

“I was upstairs, mama, moving my things,” said Susan, in afearless, self-defending tone, which startled Fanny. “You know you hadbut just settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and Icould not get Rebecca to give me any help.”

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver came tobe paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca about the manner ofcarrying 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, aswith something of the oath kind he kicked away his son’s portmanteau andhis daughter’s bandbox in the passage, and called out for a candle; nocandle was brought, however, and he walked into the room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again onfinding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. With a friendlyshake of his son’s hand, and an eager voice, he instantlybegan—“Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heardthe news? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the word, yousee! By G—, you are just in time! The doctor has been here inquiring foryou: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for Spithead by six, so youhad better go with him. I have been to Turner’s about your mess; it isall 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; andCaptain Walsh thinks you will certainly have a cruise to the westward, with theElephant. 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 inthe morning to see the Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out ofthe way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time, to say shehad slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up, and made but twosteps 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 aneight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform two hours this afternoon looking ather. She lays close to the Endymion, between her and the Cleopatra, just to theeastward of the sheer hulk.”

“Ha!” cried William, “that’sjust where I shouldhave put her myself. It’s the best berth at Spithead. But here is mysister, sir; here is Fanny,” turning and leading her forward; “itis so dark you do not see her.”

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now received hisdaughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed that she was growninto a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a husband soon, seemed very muchinclined to forget her again. Fanny shrunk back to her seat, with feelingssadly pained by his language and his smell of spirits; and he talked on only tohis son, and only of the Thrush, though William, warmly interested as he was inthat subject, more than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and herlong absence and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was stillno appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey’s reports from the kitchen, muchhope of any under a considerable period, William determined to go and changehis dress, and make the necessary preparations for his removal on boarddirectly, that he might have his tea in comfort afterwards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight andnine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and coming eagerly tosee their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone out of harbour; Tom andCharles. Charles had been born since Fanny’s going away, but Tom she hadoften helped to nurse, and now felt a particular pleasure in seeing again. Bothwere kissed very tenderly, but Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try to tracethe features of the baby she had loved, and talked to, of his infant preferenceof herself. Tom, however, had no mind for such treatment: he came home not tostand and be talked to, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys hadsoon 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 brothersbetween herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public office inLondon, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But though she hadseenall the members of the family, she had not yet heardall thenoise they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her a great dealmore. William was soon calling out from the landing-place of the second storyfor his mother and for Rebecca. He was in distress for something that he hadleft there, and did not find again. A key was mislaid, Betsey accused of havinggot at his new hat, and some slight, but essential alteration of his uniformwaistcoat, which he had been promised to have done for him, entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all talkingtogether, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done as well as it couldin a great hurry; William trying in vain to send Betsey down again, or keep herfrom being troublesome where she was; the whole of which, as almost every doorin the house was open, could be plainly distinguished in the parlour, exceptwhen drowned at intervals by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charleschasing each other up and down stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of the wallsbrought 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. Withintheroom all was tranquil enough, for Susan having disappeared with the others,there were soon only her father and herself remaining; and he, taking out anewspaper, the accustomary loan of a neighbour, applied himself to studying it,without seeming to recollect her existence. The solitary candle was heldbetween himself and the paper, without any reference to her possibleconvenience; but she had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light screenedfrom her aching head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowfulcontemplation.

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 ofimportance to her family? She could have none, so long lost sight of!William’s concerns must be dearest, they always had been, and he hadevery right. Yet to have so little said or asked about herself, to havescarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain her to have Mansfieldforgotten; the friends who had done so much—the dear, dear friends! Buthere, one subject swallowed up all the rest. Perhaps it must be so. Thedestination of the Thrush must be now preeminently interesting. A day or twomight shew the difference. Sheonly was to blame. Yet she thought itwould not have been so at Mansfield. No, in her uncle’s house there wouldhave been a consideration of times and seasons, a regulation of subject, apropriety, an attention towards everybody which there was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly half anhour was from a sudden burst of her father’s, not at all calculated tocompose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing in thepassage, he exclaimed, “Devil take those young dogs! How they are singingout! Ay, Sam’s voice louder than all the rest! That boy is fit for aboatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I shall beafter you.”

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five minutesafterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat down, Fannycould not consider it as a proof of anything more than their being for the timethoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and panting breaths seemed to prove,especially as they were still kicking each other’s shins, and hallooingout at sudden starts immediately under their father’s eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for thetea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that evening. Susanand an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed Fanny, to her greatsurprise, that she had previously seen the upper servant, brought in everythingnecessary for the meal; Susan looking, as she put the kettle on the fire andglanced at her sister, as if divided between the agreeable triumph of shewingher activity and usefulness, and the dread of being thought to demean herselfby 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 sistermust want something after her journey.”

Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be very glad ofa little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if pleased to havethe employment all to herself; and with only a little unnecessary bustle, andsome few injudicious attempts at keeping her brothers in better order than shecould, acquitted herself very well. Fanny’s spirit was as much refreshedas her body; her head and heart were soon the better for such well-timedkindness. Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like William, andFanny hoped to find her like him in disposition and goodwill towards herself.

In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not far behindby his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant’s uniform,looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful for it, and withthe happiest smile over his face, walked up directly to Fanny, who, rising fromher seat, looked at him for a moment in speechless admiration, and then threwher 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 hertears, 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 somepart of every day before they sailed, and even of getting her to Spithead tosee the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a verywell-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for whom there waswith some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty washing of the youngtea-maker’s, a cup and saucer; and after another quarter of an hour ofearnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising upon noise, and bustle uponbustle, men and boys at last all in motion together, the moment came forsetting off; everything was ready, William took leave, and all of them weregone; for the three boys, in spite of their mother’s entreaty, determinedto see their brother and Mr. Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walkedoff at the same time to carry back his neighbour’s newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly, whenRebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things, and Mrs. Price hadwalked about the room some time looking for a shirt-sleeve, which Betsey atlast hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen, the small party of females werepretty well composed, and the mother having lamented again over theimpossibility of getting Sam ready in time, was at leisure to think of hereldest daughter and the friends she had come from.

A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest—“How did sisterBertram manage about her servants?” “Was she as much plagued asherself to get tolerable servants?”—soon led her mind away fromNorthamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shockingcharacter of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two werethe very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten indetailing 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 asingle recommendation, that Fanny could not help modestly presuming that hermother meant to part with her when her year was up.

“Her year!” cried Mrs. Price; “I am sure I hope I shall berid 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 amiracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope of ever beingsettled; 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 surethe place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often dohalf the work myself.”

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedyfound for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could notbut think particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom shehad left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who haddied a few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable abouther. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news ofher death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quiteafflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, butshe would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. Whileconsidering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding outsomething to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time fromSusan’s.

“What have you got there, my love?” said Fanny; “come andshew it to me.”

It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying toget it away; but the child ran to her mother’s protection, and Susancould only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping tointerest Fanny on her side. “It was very hard that she was not to haveher ownknife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it toher 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; andthe end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own,though mama had promisedher that Betsey should not have it in her ownhands.”

Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness waswounded 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 wishyou 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 musthide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a boneof contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poorlittle 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 byher in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, oldMrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poorlittle sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My ownBetsey” (fondling her), “youhave not the luck of such agood godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people asyou.”

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to say shehoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her book. There hadbeen at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room at Mansfield Park aboutsending her a prayer-book; but no second sound had been heard of such apurpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home and taken down two oldprayer-books of her husband with that idea; but, upon examination, the ardourof generosity went off. One was found to have too small a print for achild’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 invitationof going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at being allowed to situp only one hour extraordinary in honour of sister, she was off, leaving allbelow in confusion and noise again; the boys begging for toasted cheese, herfather calling out for his rum and water, and Rebecca never where she ought tobe.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily furnishedchamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of the rooms above andbelow, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage and staircase, struck herbeyond her imagination. She soon learned to think with respect of her ownlittle attic at Mansfield Park, in thathouse reckoned too small foranybody’s comfort.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece’s feelings, when she wrote herfirst letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though a goodnight’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 goneto 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 werestill, to her own perfect consciousness, many drawbacks suppressed. Could hehave seen only half that she felt before the end of a week, he would havethought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and been delighted with his own sagacity.

Before the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place, Williamwas gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed, and he wassailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and during those daysshe had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried way, when he had comeashore 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 thatthey had planned and depended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, exceptWilliam’s affection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. Hestepped back again to the door to say, “Take care of Fanny, mother. Sheis tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge you, takecare of Fanny.”

William was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not concealit from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse of what she couldhave wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and impropriety. Nobody wasin their right place, nothing was done as it ought to be. She could not respecther parents as she had hoped. On her father, her confidence had not beensanguine, but he was more negligent of his family, his habits were worse, andhis manners coarser, than she had been prepared for. He did not want abilitiesbut he had no curiosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read onlythe 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 hisformer treatment of herself. There had remained only a general impression ofroughness and loudness; and now he scarcely ever noticed her, but to make herthe object of a coarse joke.

Her disappointment in her mother was greater: thereshe had hoped much,and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme of being of consequence toher soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind; but, instead of gainingon her affection and confidence, and becoming more and more dear, her daughternever 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 attachmenthad no other source. Her heart and her time were already quite full; she hadneither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had beenmuch to her. She was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey wasthe first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was mostinjudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling; and John,Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her maternalsolicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These shared her heart:her time was given chiefly to her house and her servants. Her days were spentin a kind of slow bustle; all was busy without getting on, always behindhandand lamenting it, without altering her ways; wishing to be an economist,without contrivance or regularity; dissatisfied with her servants, withoutskill to make them better, and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulgingthem, 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’sinclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition was naturally easyand indolent, like Lady Bertram’s; and a situation of similar affluenceand do-nothingness would have been much more suited to her capacity than theexertions and self-denials of the one which her imprudent marriage had placedher in. She might have made just as good a woman of consequence as LadyBertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more respectable mother of ninechildren on a small income.

Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple to makeuse 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 herchildren, whose house was the scene of mismanagement and discomfort frombeginning to end, and who had no talent, no conversation, no affection towardsherself; no curiosity to know her better, no desire of her friendship, and noinclination 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 inany way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education, fromcontributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about working for Samimmediately; and by working early and late, with perseverance and greatdespatch, did so much that the boy was shipped off at last, with more than halfhis linen ready. She had great pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but couldnot conceive how they would have managed without her.

Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went, for hewas 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 veryreasonable in themselves, with ill-timed and powerless warmth, was beginning tobe influenced by Fanny’s services and gentle persuasions; and she foundthat the best of the three younger ones was gone in him: Tom and Charles beingat least as many years as they were his juniors distant from that age offeeling and reason, which might suggest the expediency of making friends, andof endeavouring to be less disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of makingthe smallest impression on them; they were quite untameable by any meansof address which she had spirits or time to attempt. Every afternoon brought areturn of their riotous games all over the house; and she very early learned tosigh at the approach of Saturday’s constant half-holiday.

Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her greatestenemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and then encouraged toreport any evil of them, she was almost as ready to despair of being able tolove or assist; and of Susan’s temper she had many doubts. Her continualdisagreements with her mother, her rash squabbles with Tom and Charles, andpetulance with Betsey, were at least so distressing to Fanny that, thoughadmitting they were by no means without provocation, she feared the dispositionthat could push them to such length must be far from amiable, and fromaffording any repose to herself.

Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and teach her tothink of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On the contrary, she couldthink of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates, its happy ways. Everythingwhere she now was in full contrast to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity,harmony, and perhaps, above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, werebrought to her remembrance every hour of the day, by the prevalence ofeverything opposite to them here.

The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and nervouslike Fanny’s, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony could haveentirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At Mansfield, no soundsof contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts, no tread of violence, wasever 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 breedingsupplied its place; and as to the little irritations sometimes introduced byaunt Norris, they were short, they were trifling, they were as a drop of waterto the ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Hereeverybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, hermother’s, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram’s, onlyworn into fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the servantshallooed out their excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constantbanging, 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 aweek, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson’s celebratedjudgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield Parkmight have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.

CHAPTER XL

Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford now at therapid rate in which their correspondence had begun; Mary’s next letterwas after a decidedly longer interval than the last, but she was not right insupposing that such an interval would be felt a great relief to herself. Herewas another strange revolution of mind! She was really glad to receive theletter when it did come. In her present exile from good society, and distancefrom everything that had been wont to interest her, a letter from one belongingto the set where her heart lived, written with affection, and some degree ofelegance, was thoroughly acceptable. The usual plea of increasing engagementswas made in excuse for not having written to her earlier; “And now that Ihave begun,” she continued, “my letter will not be worth yourreading, for there will be no little offering of love at the end, no three orfour lines passionnéesfrom the most devoted H. C. in the world, forHenry is in Norfolk; business called him to Everingham ten days ago, or perhapshe only pretended the call, for the sake of being travelling at the same timethat you were. But there he is, and, by the bye, his absence may sufficientlyaccount for any remissness of his sister’s in writing, for there has beenno ‘Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny? Is not it time for you towrite to Fanny?’ to spur me on. At last, after various attempts atmeeting, I have seen your cousins, ‘dear Julia and dearest Mrs.Rushworth’; they found me at home yesterday, and we were glad to see eachother again. We seemedveryglad to see each other, and I doreally think we were a little. We had a vast deal to say. Shall I tell you howMrs. Rushworth looked when your name was mentioned? I did not use to think herwanting in self-possession, but she had not quite enough for the demands ofyesterday. Upon the whole, Julia was in the best looks of the two, at leastafter you were spoken of. There was no recovering the complexion from themoment that I spoke of ‘Fanny,’ and spoke of her as a sistershould. But Mrs. Rushworth’s day of good looks will come; we have cardsfor her first party on the 28th. Then she will be in beauty, for she will openone of the best houses in Wimpole Street. I was in it two years ago, when itwas Lady Lascelle’s, and prefer it to almost any I know in London, andcertainly she will then feel, to use a vulgar phrase, that she has got herpennyworth for her penny. Henry could not have afforded her such a house. Ihope she will recollect it, and be satisfied, as well as she may, with movingthe queen of a palace, though the king may appear best in the background; andas I have no desire to tease her, I shall never forceyour name upon heragain. She will grow sober by degrees. From all that I hear and guess, BaronWildenheim’s attentions to Julia continue, but I do not know that he hasany serious encouragement. She ought to do better. A poor honourable is nocatch, 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 rentswere but equal to his rants! Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; detained,perchance, by parish duties. There may be some old woman at Thornton Lacey tobe converted. I am unwilling to fancy myself neglected for a youngone.Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny, this is a long letter from London: write me apretty one in reply to gladden Henry’s eyes, when he comes back, and sendme an account of all the dashing young captains whom you disdain for hissake.”

There was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for unpleasantmeditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied, it connected her withthe absent, it told her of people and things about whom she had never felt somuch curiosity as now, and she would have been glad to have been sure of such aletter every week. Her correspondence with her aunt Bertram was her onlyconcern of higher interest.

As for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make amends fordeficiencies at home, there were none within the circle of her father’sand mother’s acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfaction: shesaw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own shyness andreserve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert, everybodyunderbred; and she gave as little contentment as she received fromintroductions either to old or new acquaintance. The young ladies whoapproached her at first with some respect, in consideration of her coming froma baronet’s family, were soon offended by what they termed“airs”; for, as she neither played on the pianoforte nor wore finepelisses, they could, on farther observation, admit no right of superiority.

The first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils of home, thefirst which her judgment could entirely approve, and which gave any promise ofdurability, was in a better knowledge of Susan, and a hope of being of serviceto her. Susan had always behaved pleasantly to herself, but the determinedcharacter of her general manners had astonished and alarmed her, and it was atleast a fortnight before she began to understand a disposition so totallydifferent from her own. Susan saw that much was wrong at home, and wanted toset it right. That a girl of fourteen, acting only on her own unassistedreason, should err in the method of reform, was not wonderful; and Fanny soonbecame more disposed to admire the natural light of the mind which could soearly distinguish justly, than to censure severely the faults of conduct towhich it led. Susan was only acting on the same truths, and pursuing the samesystem, which her own judgment acknowledged, but which her more supine andyielding temper would have shrunk from asserting. Susan tried to be useful,where shecould only have gone away and cried; and that Susan was usefulshe could perceive; that things, bad as they were, would have been worse butfor such interposition, and that both her mother and Betsey were restrainedfrom 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 fondnesswhich was for ever producing evil around her she had never known. There was nogratitude for affection past or present to make her better bear with itsexcesses to the others.

All this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan before her sisteras 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, andher 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 toher and wished for her good opinion; and new as anything like an office ofauthority was to Fanny, new as it was to imagine herself capable of guiding orinforming any one, she did resolve to give occasional hints to Susan, andendeavour to exercise for her advantage the juster notions of what was due toeverybody, and what would be wisest for herself, which her own more favourededucation had fixed in her.

Her influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it, originated in anact of kindness by Susan, which, after many hesitations of delicacy, she atlast worked herself up to. It had very early occurred to her that a small sumof money might, perhaps, restore peace for ever on the sore subject of thesilver knife, canvassed as it now was continually, and the riches which she wasin possession of herself, her uncle having given her £10 at parting, madeher as able as she was willing to be generous. But she was so wholly unused toconfer favours, except on the very poor, so unpractised in removing evils, orbestowing kindnesses among her equals, and so fearful of appearing to elevateherself as a great lady at home, that it took some time to determine that itwould not be unbecoming in her to make such a present. It was made, however, atlast: 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 handsomelydeclaring that now she had got one so much prettier herself, she should neverwant thatagain; and no reproach seemed conveyed to the equallysatisfied mother, which Fanny had almost feared to be impossible. The deedthoroughly answered: a source of domestic altercation was entirely done away,and it was the means of opening Susan’s heart to her, and giving hersomething more to love and be interested in. Susan shewed that she haddelicacy: pleased as she was to be mistress of property which she had beenstruggling for at least two years, she yet feared that her sister’sjudgment had been against her, and that a reproof was designed her for havingso struggled as to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity of thehouse.

Her temper was open. She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself for havingcontended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny, understanding the worth of herdisposition and perceiving how fully she was inclined to seek her good opinionand refer to her judgment, began to feel again the blessing of affection, andto entertain the hope of being useful to a mind so much in need of help, and somuch deserving it. She gave advice, advice too sound to be resisted by a goodunderstanding, and given so mildly and considerately as not to irritate animperfect temper, and she had the happiness of observing its good effects notunfrequently. More was not expected by one who, while seeing all the obligationand expediency of submission and forbearance, saw also with sympatheticacuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating to a girl like Susan. Hergreatest wonder on the subject soon became—not that Susan should havebeen provoked into disrespect and impatience against her betterknowledge—but that so much better knowledge, so many good notions shouldhave been hers at all; and that, brought up in the midst of negligence anderror, 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. Bysitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the disturbance of thehouse; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think it no misfortune to bequietly employed. They sat without a fire; but that was a privation familiareven to Fanny, and she suffered the less because reminded by it of the Eastroom. It was the only point of resemblance. In space, light, furniture, andprospect, there was nothing alike in the two apartments; and she often heaved asigh 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 firstonly in working and talking, but after a few days, the remembrance of the saidbooks grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny found it impossible not to tryfor books again. There were none in her father’s house; but wealth isluxurious 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! Andto 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 firstpleasures, and inspire a taste for the biography and poetry which she delightedin herself.

In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the recollections ofMansfield, 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 herthoughts from pursuing Edmund to London, whither, on the authority of heraunt’s last letter, she knew he was gone. She had no doubt of what wouldensue. The promised notification was hanging over her head. The postman’sknock within the neighbourhood was beginning to bring its daily terrors, and ifreading 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 heardnothing of him. There were three different conclusions to be drawn from hissilence, between which her mind was in fluctuation; each of them at times beingheld the most probable. Either his going had been again delayed, or he had yetprocured no opportunity of seeing Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy forletter-writing!

One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks fromMansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and calculate everyday, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as usual, upstairs, they werestopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they felt they could not avoid, fromRebecca’s alertness in going to the door, a duty which always interestedher beyond any other.

It was a gentleman’s voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turningpale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.

Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and she foundthat she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her remembrance ofthe name, as that of “William’s friend,” though she could notpreviously have believed herself capable of uttering a syllable at such amoment. The consciousness of his being known there only as William’sfriend was some support. Having introduced him, however, and being allreseated, the terrors that occurred of what this visit might lead to wereoverpowering, and she fancied herself on the point of fainting away.

While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first approachedher with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and kindly keeping hiseyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he devoted himself entirely toher mother, addressing her, and attending to her with the utmost politeness andpropriety, at the same time with a degree of friendliness, of interest atleast, which was making his manner perfect.

Mrs. Price’s manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of sucha friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to advantage beforehim, she was overflowing with gratitude—artless, maternalgratitude—which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out, which sheregretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to feel that shecould not regret it; for to her many other sources of uneasiness was added thesevere one of shame for the home in which he found her. She might scold herselffor the weakness, but there was no scolding it away. She was ashamed, and shewould 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 feltthat she had never seen so agreeable a man in her life; and was only astonishedto find that, so great and so agreeable as he was, he should be come down toPortsmouth neither on a visit to the port-admiral, nor the commissioner, noryet 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 itlate the night before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the Crown, hadaccidentally met with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance since hisarrival, but had no object of that kind in coming.

By the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable tosuppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was tolerably ableto bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour with his sister theevening 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 Maryfor even half an hour, having spent scarcely twenty-four hours in London, afterhis return from Norfolk, before he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was intown, had been in town, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen himhimself, but that he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and was todine, as yesterday, with the Frasers.

Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance; nay, itseemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and the words,“then by this time it is all settled,” passed internally, withoutmore evidence of emotion than a faint blush.

After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her interestwas 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 morningso often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody not to delay theirexercise”; and such hints producing nothing, he soon proceeded to apositive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her daughters to take their walkwithout loss of time. Now they came to an understanding. Mrs. Price, itappeared, scarcely ever stirred out of doors, except of a Sunday; she owned shecould seldom, with her large family, find time for a walk. “Would shenot, then, persuade her daughters to take advantage of such weather, and allowhim the pleasure of attending them?” Mrs. Price was greatly obliged andvery complying. “Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was asad place; they did not often get out; and she knew they had some errands inthe town, which they would be very glad to do.” And the consequence was,that Fanny, strange as it was—strange, awkward, anddistressing—found herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towardsthe High Street with Mr. Crawford.

It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were hardly inthe High Street before they met her father, whose appearance was not the betterfrom its being Saturday. He stopt; and, ungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny wasobliged to introduce him to Mr. Crawford. She could not have a doubt of themanner in which Mr. Crawford must be struck. He must be ashamed and disgustedaltogether. He must soon give her up, and cease to have the smallestinclination for the match; and yet, though she had been so much wanting hisaffection to be cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad asthe complaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the UnitedKingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being sought by aclever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity of hernearest relations.

Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with any ideaof taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly, and to her greatrelief, 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 wasin his own family at home. His manners now, though not polished, were more thanpassable: they were grateful, animated, manly; his expressions were those of anattached father, and a sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the openair, and there was not a single oath to be heard. Such was his instinctivecompliment to the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the consequence what itmight, 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 seenthe 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 notafraid 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 theywere all to go; and but for Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thitherdirectly, without the smallest consideration for his daughters’ errandsin the High Street. He took care, however, that they should be allowed to go tothe shops they came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long, forFanny could so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for, that beforethe gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more than begin upon thelast naval regulations, or settle the number of three-deckers now incommission, their companions were ready to proceed.

They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk would havebeen conducted—according to Mr. Crawford’s opinion—in asingular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of it, as thetwo girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and keep up with them ornot, as they could, while they walked on together at their own hasty pace. Hewas able to introduce some improvement occasionally, though by no means to theextent he wished; he absolutely would not walk away from them; and at anycrossing or any crowd, when Mr. Price was only calling out, “Come, girls;come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of yourselves; keep a sharp lookout!” hewould give them his particular attendance.

Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy intercoursewith 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, andwho must prove a far more worthy companion than himself; and after a time thetwo officers seemed very well satisfied going about together, and discussingmatters of equal and never-failing interest, while the young people sat downupon some timbers in the yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in the stockswhich 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; buthe could have wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan’s agewas the very worst third in the world: totally different from Lady Bertram, alleyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point before her. He mustcontent himself with being only generally agreeable, and letting Susan have hershare of entertainment, with the indulgence, now and then, of a look or hintfor the better-informed and conscious Fanny. Norfolk was what he had mostly totalk of: there he had been some time, and everything there was rising inimportance from his present schemes. Such a man could come from no place, nosociety, without importing something to amuse; his journeys and hisacquaintance were all of use, and Susan was entertained in a way quite new toher. For Fanny, somewhat more was related than the accidental agreeableness ofthe parties he had been in. For her approbation, the particular reason of hisgoing into Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given. It had beenreal business, relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare of alarge and—he believed—industrious family was at stake. He hadsuspected his agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias him againstthe deserving; and he had determined to go himself, and thoroughly investigatethe merits of the case. He had gone, had done even more good than he hadforeseen, had been useful to more than his first plan had comprehended, and wasnow able to congratulate himself upon it, and to feel that in performing aduty, he had secured agreeable recollections for his own mind. He hadintroduced himself to some tenants whom he had never seen before; he had begunmaking acquaintance with cottages whose very existence, though on his ownestate, had been hitherto unknown to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, atFanny. It was pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here he had been actingas he ought to do. To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed! Nothingcould be more grateful to her; and she was on the point of giving him anapproving look, when it was all frightened off by his adding a something toopointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide in everyplan of utility or charity for Everingham: a somebody that would makeEveringham 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 toallow he might have more good qualities than she had been wont to suppose. Shebegan to feel the possibility of his turning out well at last; but he was andmust 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 aswell to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could not havechosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention and her looksalmost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear or to speak ofMansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who knew the place, she felt itquite the voice of a friend when he mentioned it, and led the way to her fondexclamations in praise of its beauties and comforts, and by his honourabletribute to its inhabitants allowed her to gratify her own heart in the warmesteulogium, in speaking of her uncle as all that was clever and good, and heraunt as having the sweetest of all sweet tempers.

He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked forwardwith the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there; always there, orin the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a very happy summer and autumnthere this year; he felt that it would be so: he depended upon it; a summer andautumn infinitely superior to the last. As animated, as diversified, as social,but with circumstances of superiority undescribable.

“Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,” he continued; “what asociety will be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourthmay be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so dear; foras to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram once good-humouredlyproposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two fair, excellent, irresistibleobjections to that plan.”

Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed, could regretthat she had not forced herself into the acknowledged comprehension of one halfof his meaning, and encouraged him to say something more of his sister andEdmund. It was a subject which she must learn to speak of, and the weaknessthat 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 onlybusiness in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come down for a couple ofdays on her account, and hers only, and because he could not endure a longertotal separation. She was sorry, really sorry; and yet in spite of this and thetwo or three other things which she wished he had not said, she thought himaltogether improved since she had seen him; he was much more gentle, obliging,and attentive to other people’s feelings than he had ever been atMansfield; she had never seen him so agreeable—so nearbeingagreeable; his behaviour to her father could not offend, and there wassomething particularly kind and proper in the notice he took of Susan. He wasdecidedly improved. She wished the next day over, she wished he had come onlyfor one day; but it was not so very bad as she would have expected: thepleasure of talking of Mansfield was so very great!

Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one of notrivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of taking his muttonwith them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror, before he declaredhimself prevented by a prior engagement. He was engaged to dinner already bothfor that day and the next; he had met with some acquaintance at the Crown whowould not be denied; he should have the honour, however, of waiting on themagain on the morrow, etc., and so they parted—Fanny in a state of actualfelicity 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 everythingabout as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet enough inured to forher often to make a tolerable meal. Shewas nice only from naturaldelicacy, but hehad been brought up in a school of luxury andepicurism.

CHAPTER XLII

The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr. Crawfordappeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was asked to go withthem to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he had intended, and theyall walked thither together.

The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no inconsiderableshare of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their cleanest skins and bestattire. Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and on this Sunday shefelt it more than ever. Her poor mother now did not look so very unworthy ofbeing Lady Bertram’s sister as she was but too apt to look. It oftengrieved her to the heart to think of the contrast between them; to think thatwhere nature had made so little difference, circumstances should have made somuch, and that her mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years herjunior, should have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless,so slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerablycheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of children,feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only discomposed if she sawher 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 bedivided 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 throughoutthe year, always going directly after morning service and staying tilldinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her acquaintance, heard alittle news, talked over the badness of the Portsmouth servants, and wound upher spirits for the six days ensuing.

Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss Prices ashis 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 walkingbetween them with an arm of each under his, and she did not know how to preventor put an end to it. It made her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there wereenjoyments 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 itsmild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a minute;and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such a sky, theeffects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at Spithead and theisland 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 hergradually 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, forshe wanted strength for a two hours’ saunter of this kind, coming, as itgenerally did, upon a week’s previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning tofeel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lostground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford andthe 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 oftenstopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall, someminutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny could notbut allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature, and very wellable 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 withoutdetection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching asever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She saidshe wasvery 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, andtherefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for herbeing again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, mustbe 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 leftMansfield.”

“You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that amonth.”

“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 beless.”

“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 Imay be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly atthe two months’ end.”

After a moment’s reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, “I knowMansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards you. I know thedanger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to theimaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that youmay be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything forcoming himself, or sending your aunt’s maid for you, without involvingthe slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down forthe 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’shealth,” said he, addressing himself to Susan, “which I think theconfinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air andexercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that shedoes, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air andliberty of the country. If, therefore” (turning again to Fanny),“you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about yourreturning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended,thatmust not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself atall 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, andtake you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which thiswould 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 onlyas you positively say, in every letter to Mary, ‘I am well,’ and Iknow you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you beconsidered as well.”

Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree that madeit impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of what she ought tosay. 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 begoing to dinner, and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere.

“I wish you were not so tired,” said he, still detaining Fannyafter all the others were in the house—“I wish I left you instronger health. Is there anything I can do for you in town? I have half anidea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I amsure he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his owninto a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to anunderstanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked on thesouth side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will be master ofmy own property. I was not explicit enough with him before. The mischief such aman does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer and the welfare ofthe poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolkdirectly, and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwardsswerved 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 beduped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simpleto let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of anhonest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worsethan 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. Yourjudgment is my rule of right.”

“Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if wewould attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you apleasant 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, mycousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I shallsoon hear from him.”

“Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excusesmyself.”

He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed herhand, looked at her, and was gone. Hewent to while away the next threehours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best dinner that acapital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and sheturned in toher more simple one immediately.

Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have suspectedhow many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in herfather’s house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much moreaffected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca’spuddings and Rebecca’s hashes, brought to table, as they all were, withsuch accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives andforks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest meal till shecould send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns. After beingnursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be hardened atPortsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all, might have thought hisniece in the most promising way of being starved, both mind and body, into amuch juster value for Mr. Crawford’s good company and good fortune, hewould probably have feared to push his experiment farther, lest she might dieunder the cure.

Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably secure ofnot seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low. It was partingwith somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in one light, glad to havehim gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by everybody; it was a sort ofrenewed separation from Mansfield; and she could not think of his returning totown, and being frequently with Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akinto envy as made her hate herself for having them.

Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a friend ortwo of her father’s, as always happened if he was not with them, spentthe 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 wonderfulimprovement which she still fancied in Mr. Crawford was the nearest toadministering comfort of anything within the current of her thoughts. Notconsidering in how different a circle she had been just seeing him, nor howmuch might be owing to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his beingastonishingly more gentle and regardful of others than formerly. And, if inlittle things, must it not be so in great? So anxious for her health andcomfort, so very feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, mightnot it be fairly supposed that he would not much longer persevere in a suit sodistressing to her?

CHAPTER XLIII

It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London, on themorrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price’s; and two daysafterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following letter from hissister, opened and read by her, on another account, with the most anxiouscuriosity:—

“I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down toPortsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to the dockyardlast 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 conversationwere altogether in the most delicious harmony, and afforded sensations whichare to raise ecstasy even in retrospect. This, as well as I understand, is tobe the substance of my information. He makes me write, but I do not know whatelse is to be communicated, except this said visit to Portsmouth, and these twosaid walks, and his introduction to your family, especially to a fair sister ofyours, a fine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts, taking herfirst lesson, I presume, in love. I have not time for writing much, but itwould 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 bedelayed without risk of evil. My dear, dear Fanny, if I had you here, how Iwould talk to you! You should listen to me till you were tired, and advise metill you were still tired more; but it is impossible to put a hundredth part ofmy great mind on paper, so I will abstain altogether, and leave you to guesswhat you like. I have no news for you. You have politics, of course; and itwould be too bad to plague you with the names of people and parties that fillup my time. I ought to have sent you an account of your cousin’s firstparty, but I was lazy, and now it is too long ago; suffice it, that everythingwas just as it ought to be, in a style that any of her connexions must havebeen gratified to witness, and that her own dress and manners did her thegreatest credit. My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is mad for such a house, and it wouldnot make memiserable. I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter; she seems inhigh spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord S. is very good-humoured andpleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so very ill-looking as Idid—at least, one sees many worse. He will not do by the side of yourcousin Edmund. Of the last-mentioned hero, what shall I say? If I avoided hisname entirely, it would look suspicious. I will say, then, that we have seenhim two or three times, and that my friends here are very much struck with hisgentlemanlike appearance. Mrs. Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows butthree men in town who have so good a person, height, and air; and I mustconfess, 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 dressnowadays to tell tales, but—but—but Yours affectionately.”

“I had almost forgot (it was Edmund’s fault: he gets into my headmore than does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry andmyself—I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My dearlittle creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks. Thosevile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor aunt always feltaffected if within ten miles of the sea, which the Admiral of course neverbelieved, but I know it was so. I am at your service and Henry’s, at anhour’s notice. I should like the scheme, and we would make a littlecircuit, and shew you Everingham in our way, and perhaps you would not mindpassing through London, and seeing the inside of St. George’s, HanoverSquare. Only keep your cousin Edmund from me at such a time: I should not liketo be tempted. What a long letter! one word more. Henry, I find, has some ideaof going into Norfolk again upon some business that youapprove; butthis cannot possibly be permitted before the middle of next week; that is, hecannot anyhow be spared till after the 14th, for wehave a party thatevening. The value of a man like Henry, on such an occasion, is what you canhave no conception of; so you must take it upon my word to be inestimable. Hewill see the Rushworths, which I own I am not sorry for—having a littlecuriosity, and so I think has he—though he will not acknowledgeit.”

This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately, to supplymatter for much reflection, and to leave everything in greater suspense thanever. The only certainty to be drawn from it was, that nothing decisive had yettaken place. Edmund had not yet spoken. How Miss Crawford really felt, how shemeant to act, or might act without or against her meaning; whether hisimportance 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, weresubjects for endless conjecture, and to be thought of on that day and many daysto come, without producing any conclusion. The idea that returned the oftenestwas that Miss Crawford, after proving herself cooled and staggered by a returnto London habits, would yet prove herself in the end too much attached to himto 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 agreat 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 Crawfordmight not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse. The woman whocould speak of him, and speak only of his appearance! What an unworthyattachment! To be deriving support from the commendations of Mrs. Fraser!Shewho 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 Norfolkbefore or after the 14th was certainly no concern of hers, though, everythingconsidered, she thought he wouldgo without delay. That Miss Crawfordshould endeavour to secure a meeting between him and Mrs. Rushworth, was all inher worst line of conduct, and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hopedhewould not be actuated by any such degrading curiosity. Heacknowledged no such inducement, and his sister ought to have given him creditfor better feelings than her own.

She was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving thisthan 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 conversationwith Susan were much suspended. She could not command her attention as shewished. If Mr. Crawford remembered her message to her cousin, she thought itvery likely, most likely, that he would write to her at all events; it would bemost 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 orfour 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 didsomething, her own exertions something more, and she resumed her attentions toSusan, and again awakened the same interest in them.

Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the early delightin books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition much lessinclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for information’s sake,she had so strong a desire of not appearingignorant, as, with a goodclear understanding, made her a most attentive, profitable, thankful pupil.Fanny was her oracle. Fanny’s explanations and remarks were a mostimportant addition to every essay, or every chapter of history. What Fanny toldher of former times dwelt more on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and shepaid her sister the compliment of preferring her style to that of any printedauthor. The early habit of reading was wanting.

Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as history ormorals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters, none returned so often,or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park, a description of thepeople, the manners, the amusements, the ways of Mansfield Park. Susan, who hadan innate taste for the genteel and well-appointed, was eager to hear, andFanny could not but indulge herself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. Shehoped it was not wrong; though, after a time, Susan’s very greatadmiration of everything said or done in her uncle’s house, and earnestlonging to go into Northamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for excitingfeelings which could not be gratified.

Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder sister; and asFanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to feel that when her ownrelease from Portsmouth came, her happiness would have a material drawback inleaving Susan behind. That a girl so capable of being made everything goodshould be left in such hands, distressed her more and more. Were shelikely to have a home to invite her to, what a blessing it would be! And had itbeen possible for her to return Mr. Crawford’s regard, the probability ofhis being very far from objecting to such a measure would have been thegreatest increase of all her own comforts. She thought he was reallygood-tempered, and could fancy his entering into a plan of that sort mostpleasantly.

CHAPTER XLIV

Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one letter, theletter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny’s hands. As sheopened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a minute detail ofhappiness and a profusion of love and praise towards the fortunate creature whowas now mistress of his fate. These were the contents—

“My Dear Fanny,—Excuse me that I have not written before. Crawfordtold me that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it impossible towrite 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, butnothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned to Mansfield in aless assured state than when I left it. My hopes are much weaker. You areprobably aware of this already. So very fond of you as Miss Crawford is, it ismost natural that she should tell you enough of her own feelings to furnish atolerable guess at mine. I will not be prevented, however, from making my owncommunication. Our confidences in you need not clash. I ask no questions. Thereis something soothing in the idea that we have the same friend, and thatwhatever unhappy differences of opinion may exist between us, we are united inour love of you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how things now are, andwhat are my present plans, if plans I can be said to have. I have been returnedsince Saturday. I was three weeks in London, and saw her (for London) veryoften. I had every attention from the Frasers that could be reasonablyexpected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with me hopes of anintercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It was her manner, however, ratherthan any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been different when I did see her, Ishould have made no complaint, but from the very first she was altered: myfirst reception was so unlike what I had hoped, that I had almost resolved onleaving London again directly. I need not particularise. You know the weak sideof her character, and may imagine the sentiments and expressions which weretorturing me. She was in high spirits, and surrounded by those who were givingall the support of their own bad sense to her too lively mind. I do not likeMrs. Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely fromconvenience, and though evidently unhappy in her marriage, places herdisappointment 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 ofeverything mercenary and ambitious, provided it be only mercenary and ambitiousenough. I look upon her intimacy with those two sisters as the greatestmisfortune 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 fondof her; but I am sure she does not love them as she loves you. When I think ofher great attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of her judicious, uprightconduct as a sister, she appears a very different creature, capable ofeverything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too harsh constructionof a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is the only woman in theworld whom I could ever think of as a wife. If I did not believe that she hadsome regard for me, of course I should not say this, but I do believe it. I amconvinced that she is not without a decided preference. I have no jealousy ofany individual. It is the influence of the fashionable world altogether that Iam jealous of. It is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higherthan her own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes unitedcould authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could better bear tolose her because not rich enough, than because of my profession. That wouldonly prove her affection not equal to sacrifices, which, in fact, I am scarcelyjustified in asking; and, if I am refused, that, I think, will be the honestmotive. Her prejudices, I trust, are not so strong as they were. You have mythoughts exactly as they arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimescontradictory, but it will not be a less faithful picture of my mind. Havingonce begun, it is a pleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give herup. Connected as we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up MaryCrawford would be to give up the society of some of those most dear to me; tobanish 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 ascomprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny. Were it a decided thing, anactual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear it, and how to endeavour toweaken her hold on my heart, and in the course of a few years—but I amwriting nonsense. Were I refused, I must bear it; and till I am, I can nevercease to try for her. This is the truth. The only question is how? Whatmay be the likeliest means? I have sometimes thought of going to London againafter Easter, and sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns toMansfield. 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 havenearly determined on explaining myself by letter. To be at an early certaintyis a material object. My present state is miserably irksome. Consideringeverything, 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 hertime for reflection before she resolves on her answer, and I am less afraid ofthe result of reflection than of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am. Mygreatest danger would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a distanceunable 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 anunlucky moment, lead it to do what it may afterwards regret. I must think thismatter over a little. This long letter, full of my own concerns alone, will beenough to tire even the friendship of a Fanny. The last time I saw Crawford wasat Mrs. Fraser’s party. I am more and more satisfied with all that I seeand hear of him. There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his ownmind, and acts up to his resolutions: an inestimable quality. I could not seehim and my eldest sister in the same room without recollecting what you oncetold me, and I acknowledge that they did not meet as friends. There was markedcoolness on her side. They scarcely spoke. I saw him draw back surprised, and Iwas sorry that Mrs. Rushworth should resent any former supposed slight to MissBertram. You will wish to hear my opinion of Maria’s degree of comfort asa wife. There is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty welltogether. 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 enjoyLondon exceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, but have less here. We arenot a lively party. You are very much wanted. I miss you more than I canexpress. My mother desires her best love, and hopes to hear from you soon. Shetalks of you almost every hour, and I am sorry to find how many weeks more sheis likely to be without you. My father means to fetch you himself, but it willnot be till after Easter, when he has business in town. You are happy atPortsmouth, 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 forextensive improvements till I know that it will ever have a mistress. I think Ishall certainly write. It is quite settled that the Grants go to Bath; theyleave Mansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am not comfortable enough to befit for anybody; but your aunt seems to feel out of luck that such an articleof Mansfield news should fall to my pen instead of hers.—Yours ever, mydearest 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 theybring but disappointment and sorrow? Not till after Easter! How shall I bearit? And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!”

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could, but she waswithin 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, therewas nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was almost vexed into displeasureand anger against Edmund. “There is no good in this delay,” saidshe. “Why is not it settled? He is blinded, and nothing will open hiseyes; nothing can, after having had truths before him so long in vain. He willmarry her, and be poor and miserable. God grant that her influence do not makehim cease to be respectable!” She looked over the letter again.“‘So very fond of me!’ ’tis nonsense all. She lovesnobody but herself and her brother. Her friends leading her astray for years!She is quite as likely to have led themastray. They have all, perhaps,been corrupting one another; but if they are so much fonder of her than she isof 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 awife.’ 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 ofMary 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 didnot connect them! Oh! write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end ofthis suspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself.”

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long guidingFanny’s soliloquies. She was soon more softened and sorrowful. His warmregard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment, touched her strongly.He was only too good to everybody. It was a letter, in short, which she wouldnot but have had for the world, and which could never be valued enough. Thiswas the end of it.

Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having much to say, whichwill include a large proportion of the female world at least, must feel withLady Bertram that she was out of luck in having such a capital piece ofMansfield news as the certainty of the Grants going to Bath, occur at a timewhen she could make no advantage of it, and will admit that it must have beenvery mortifying to her to see it fall to the share of her thankless son, andtreated as concisely as possible at the end of a long letter, instead of havingit to spread over the largest part of a page of her own. For though LadyBertram rather shone in the epistolary line, having early in her marriage, fromthe want of other employment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas’s beingin Parliament, got into the way of making and keeping correspondents, andformed for herself a very creditable, common-place, amplifying style, so that avery 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 tolose all the benefit of Dr. Grant’s gouty symptoms and Mrs. Grant’smorning calls, it was very hard upon her to be deprived of one of the lastepistolary uses she could put them to.

There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram’s hourof 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 alarmingintelligence, 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 herwith all the particulars of the Grants’ intended journey, for the presentintelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for the pen for many days tocome, being no less than the dangerous illness of her eldest son, of which theyhad received notice by express a few hours before.

Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where aneglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought on a fever; and when theparty broke up, being unable to move, had been left by himself at the house ofone of these young men to the comforts of sickness and solitude, and theattendance only of servants. Instead of being soon well enough to follow hisfriends, as he had then hoped, his disorder increased considerably, and it wasnot long before he thought so ill of himself as to be as ready as his physicianto have a letter despatched to Mansfield.

“This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,” observed herladyship, after giving the substance of it, “has agitated us exceedingly,and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed and apprehensive forthe poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may be very critical; and Edmundkindly proposes attending his brother immediately, but I am happy to add thatSir Thomas will not leave me on this distressing occasion, as it would be tootrying for me. We shall greatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trustand hope he will find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might beapprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield shortly, whichSir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on every account, and Iflatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able to bear the removal withoutmaterial inconvenience or injury. As I have little doubt of your feeling forus, my dear Fanny, under these distressing circumstances, I will write againvery soon.”

Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm andgenuine 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 partyremaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care, or almostevery other. She could just find selfishness enough to wonder whether Edmundhadwritten to Miss Crawford before this summons came, but no sentimentdwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate and disinterestedlyanxious. Her aunt did not neglect her: she wrote again and again; they werereceiving frequent accounts from Edmund, and these accounts were as regularlytransmitted 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 asort of playing at being frightened. The sufferings which Lady Bertram did notsee had little power over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably aboutagitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually conveyed toMansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered appearance. Then a letterwhich she had been previously preparing for Fanny was finished in a differentstyle, in the language of real feeling and alarm; then she wrote as she mighthave spoken. “He is just come, my dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; andI am so shocked to see him, that I do not know what to do. I am sure he hasbeen 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 hisjourney.”

The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not soon over.Tom’s extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and experience thosecomforts of home and family which had been little thought of in uninterruptedhealth, had probably induced his being conveyed thither too early, as a returnof 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 terrorsto her niece, who might now be said to live upon letters, and pass all her timebetween suffering from that of to-day and looking forward to to-morrow’s.Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin, her tenderness of heartmade her feel that she could not spare him, and the purity of her principlesadded yet a keener solicitude, when she considered how little useful, howlittle 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 beinterested in so remote an evil as illness in a family above an hundred milesoff; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two, if she saw herdaughter 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 morethan nothing. An attachment, originally as tranquil as their tempers, was nowbecome a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much for Lady Bertram as LadyBertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three or four Prices might have beenswept away, any or all except Fanny and William, and Lady Bertram would havethought little about it; or perhaps might have caught from Mrs. Norris’slips the cant of its being a very happy thing and a great blessing to theirpoor dear sister Price to have them so well provided for.

CHAPTER XLV

At about the week’s end from his return to Mansfield, Tom’simmediate danger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make hismother 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 sheheard, with no disposition for alarm and no aptitude at a hint, Lady Bertramwas the happiest subject in the world for a little medical imposition. Thefever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint; of course he would soon bewell again. Lady Bertram could think nothing less, and Fanny shared heraunt’s security, till she received a few lines from Edmund, writtenpurposely to give her a clearer idea of his brother’s situation, andacquaint her with the apprehensions which he and his father had imbibed fromthe physician with respect to some strong hectic symptoms, which seemed toseize the frame on the departure of the fever. They judged it best that LadyBertram should not be harassed by alarms which, it was to be hoped, would proveunfounded; but there was no reason why Fanny should not know the truth. Theywere apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom in ajuster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram’s sheets of paper coulddo. There was hardly any one in the house who might not have described, frompersonal observation, better than herself; not one who was not more useful attimes 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 hepreferred. His aunt worried him by her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how tobring down his conversation or his voice to the level of irritation andfeebleness. Edmund was all in all. Fanny would certainly believe him so atleast, and must find that her estimation of him was higher than ever when heappeared as the attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother. There wasnot only the debility of recent illness to assist: there was also, as she nowlearnt, nerves much affected, spirits much depressed to calm and raise, and herown 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 fearfor her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford; but Miss Crawfordgave her the idea of being the child of good luck, and to her selfishness andvanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only son.

Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. Edmund’sletter had this postscript. “On the subject of my last, I had actuallybegun a letter when called away by Tom’s illness, but I have now changedmy mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom is better, Ishall 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 letterwas enough for Fanny’s information. Tom’s amendment was alarminglyslow.

Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfullyconsidered, on first learning that she had no chance of leaving Portsmouth tillafter it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of her return—nothingeven of the going to London, which was to precede her return. Her aunt oftenexpressed a wish for her, but there was no notice, no message from the uncle onwhom all depended. She supposed he could not yet leave his son, but it was acruel, a terrible delay to her. The end of April was coming on; it would soonbe 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 themtoo well to hope they would thoroughly understand; and who could yet say whenthere might be leisure to think of or fetch her?

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such as tobring a line or two of Cowper’s Tirocinium for ever before her.“With what intense desire she wants her home,” was continually onher tongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she could not supposeany schoolboy’s bosom to feel more keenly.

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her home, hadbeen fond of saying that she was going home; the word had been very dear toher, and so it still was, but it must be applied to Mansfield. Thatwasnow the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield was home. They had been longso arranged in the indulgence of her secret meditations, and nothing was moreconsolatory to her than to find her aunt using the same language: “Icannot but say I much regret your being from home at this distressing time, sovery trying to my spirits. I trust and hope, and sincerely wish you may neverbe absent from home so long again,” were most delightful sentences toher. Still, however, it was her private regale. Delicacy to her parents madeher careful not to betray such a preference of her uncle’s house. It wasalways: “When I go back into Northamptonshire, or when I return toMansfield, I shall do so and so.” For a great while it was so, but atlast the longing grew stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found herselftalking of what she should do when she went home before she was aware. Shereproached herself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards her father andmother. She need not have been uneasy. There was no sign of displeasure, oreven 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 knownbefore what pleasures she hadto lose in passing March and April in atown. She had not known before how much the beginnings and progress ofvegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body and mind, she hadderived from watching the advance of that season which cannot, in spite of itscapriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing its increasing beauties from theearliest flowers in the warmest divisions of her aunt’s garden, to theopening 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 wasin the midst of closeness and noise, to have confinement, bad air, bad smells,substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitelyworse: but even these incitements to regret were feeble, compared with whatarose from the conviction of being missed by her best friends, and the longingto be useful to those who were wanting her!

Could she have been at home, she might have been of service to every creaturein the house. She felt that she must have been of use to all. To all she musthave saved some trouble of head or hand; and were it only in supporting thespirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from the evil of solitude, or thestill greater evil of a restless, officious companion, too apt to beheightening danger in order to enhance her own importance, her being therewould have been a general good. She loved to fancy how she could have read toher aunt, how she could have talked to her, and tried at once to make her feelthe blessing of what was, and prepare her mind for what might be; and how manywalks up and down stairs she might have saved her, and how many messages shemight have carried.

It astonished her that Tom’s sisters could be satisfied with remaining inLondon at such a time, through an illness which had now, under differentdegrees of danger, lasted several weeks. Theymight return to Mansfieldwhen they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to them, and shecould not comprehend how both could still keep away. If Mrs. Rushworth couldimagine any interfering obligations, Julia was certainly able to quit Londonwhenever she chose. It appeared from one of her aunt’s letters that Juliahad offered to return if wanted, but this was all. It was evident that shewould rather remain where she was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war with allrespectable attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss Crawford, as well asin her cousins; herattachment to Edmund had been respectable, the mostrespectable part of her character; her friendship for herself had at least beenblameless. Where was either sentiment now? It was so long since Fanny had hadany letter from her, that she had some reason to think lightly of thefriendship which had been so dwelt on. It was weeks since she had heardanything of Miss Crawford or of her other connexions in town, except throughMansfield, and she was beginning to suppose that she might never know whetherMr. Crawford had gone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might neverhear from his sister any more this spring, when the following letter wasreceived to revive old and create some new sensations—

“Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, andbehave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest request andexpectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated better thanI deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I want to know the stateof 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 Ihear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought littleof his illness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made afuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chieflyconcerned for those who had to nurse him; but now it is confidently assertedthat he is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and thatpart of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure you mustbe included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore entreat you tolet me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced Ishall be to hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalentthat I confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine young man cut offin the flower of his days is most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel itdreadfully. I really am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see yousmile and look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in mylife. Poor young man! If he is to die, there will be twopoor young menless in the world; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to anyone, that wealth and consequence could fall into no hands more deserving ofthem. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few daysmay be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains. It will bebut the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real affection, Fanny, likemine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by return of post, judge of myanxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real truth, as you have it fromthe fountainhead. And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either myfeelings or your own. Believe me, they are not only natural, they arephilanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether ‘SirEdmund’ would not do more good with all the Bertram property than anyother possible ‘Sir.’ Had the Grants been at home I would not havetroubled you, but you are now the only one I can apply to for the truth, hissisters not being within my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter withthe 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 theirname and street. Could I immediately apply to either, however, I should stillprefer you, because it strikes me that they have all along been so unwilling tohave their own amusements cut up, as to shut their eyes to the truth. I supposeMrs. R.’s Easter holidays will not last much longer; no doubt they arethorough holidays to her. The Aylmers are pleasant people; and her husbandaway, she can have nothing but enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting hisgoing dutifully down to Bath, to fetch his mother; but how will she and thedowager agree in one house? Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to say fromhim. Do not you think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but forthis illness?—Yours ever, Mary.”

“I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but hebrings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline isapprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole Street to-day; theold lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy with any queer fanciesbecause 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 seeyou, and occupied only in contriving the means for doing so, and for making hispleasure conduce to yours. In proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he saidat Portsmouth about our conveying you home, and I join him in it with all mysoul. 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 atMansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see them all again, and alittle addition of society might be of infinite use to them; and as toyourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there, that you cannot inconscience—conscientious as you are—keep away, when you have themeans of returning. I have not time or patience to give half Henry’smessages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and every one is unalterableaffection.”

Fanny’s disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extremereluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together, would havemade her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially whether the concludingoffer might be accepted or not. To herself, individually, it was most tempting.To be finding herself, perhaps within three days, transported to Mansfield, wasan image of the greatest felicity, but it would have been a material drawbackto be owing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at thepresent moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister’s feelings, thebrother’s conduct, hercold-hearted ambition, histhoughtless vanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, ofMrs. Rushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily,however, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite inclinations anddoubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to determine whether she oughtto keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She had a rule to apply to, whichsettled everything. Her awe of her uncle, and her dread of taking a libertywith him, made it instantly plain to her what she had to do. She mustabsolutely decline the proposal. If he wanted, he would send for her; and evento offer an early return was a presumption which hardly anything would haveseemed to justify. She thanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative.“Her uncle, she understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin’sillness 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 shouldbe felt an encumbrance.”

Her representation of her cousin’s state at this time was exactlyaccording to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would convey to thesanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything she was wishing for.Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed, under certainconditions of wealth; and this, she suspected, was all the conquest ofprejudice which he was so ready to congratulate himself upon. She had onlylearnt 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’stemper, of being urged again; and though no second letter arrived for the spaceof 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. Itsobject was unquestionable; and two moments were enough to start the probabilityof its being merely to give her notice that they should be in Portsmouth thatvery day, and to throw her into all the agitation of doubting what she ought todo in such a case. If two moments, however, can surround with difficulties, athird can disperse them; and before she had opened the letter, the possibilityof Mr. and Miss Crawford’s having applied to her uncle and obtained hispermission 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 spreadinto the country. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that a day or twowill clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and in spite of amoment’s etourderie, thinks of nobody but you. Say not a word ofit; hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I write again. I amsure 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, andJulia with them. But why would not you let us come for you? I wish you may notrepent it.—Yours, etc.”

Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached her, itwas impossible for her to understand much of this strange letter. She couldonly perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford, and onlyconjecture that something very imprudent had just occurred in that quarter todraw the notice of the world, and to excite her jealousy, in MissCrawford’s apprehension, if she heard it. Miss Crawford need not bealarmed for her. She was only sorry for the parties concerned and forMansfield, if the report should spread so far; but she hoped it might not. Ifthe Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield, as was to be inferred fromwhat Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that anything unpleasant should havepreceded them, or at least should make any impression.

As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his owndisposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily attached toany one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting any longer inaddressing herself.

It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to fancyhis affection for her something more than common; and his sister still saidthat he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some marked display ofattentions to her cousin, there must have been some strong indiscretion, sinceher correspondent was not of a sort to regard a slight one.

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from MissCrawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts, andshe could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any human being. MissCrawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth; she might havetrusted to her sense of what was due to her cousin.

The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed. Shecould still think of little else all the morning; but, when her father cameback in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she was so far fromexpecting any elucidation through such a channel that the subject was for amoment out of her head.

She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in thatroom, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No candle was nowwanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She felt that shehad, indeed, been three months there; and the sun’s rays falling stronglyinto the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still more melancholy, forsunshine appeared to her a totally different thing in a town and in thecountry. Here, its power was only a glare: a stifling, sickly glare, servingbut to bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. There wasneither health nor gaiety in sunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze ofoppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander fromthe walls, marked by her father’s head, to the table cut and notched byher brothers, where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups andsaucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue,and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than evenRebecca’s hands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, andher mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was inpreparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first roused byhis calling out to her, after humphing and considering over a particularparagraph: “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 finerelations 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 theless. But, by G—! if she belonged to me, I’d give her therope’s end as long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for manand woman too would be the best way of preventing such things.”

Fanny read to herself that “it was with infinite concern the newspaperhad to announce to the world a matrimonial fracasin the family of Mr.R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long beenenrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant aleader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband’s roof incompany with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend andassociate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaperwhither they were gone.”

“It is a mistake, sir,” said Fanny instantly; “it must be amistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people.”

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with aresolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could notbelieve herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truthrushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even havebreathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself.

Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer. “Itmight be all a lie,” he acknowledged; “but so many fine ladies weregoing to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering foranybody.”

“Indeed, I hope it is not true,” said Mrs. Price plaintively;“it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca aboutthat 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 suchguilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can hardlybe described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every moment wasquickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not doubt, she darednot 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 frightfulconformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its beinghushedup, her evident agitation, were all of a piece withsomething very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence, whocould treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would try to glossit over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford tobe the woman! Now she could see her own mistake as to whowere gone, orsaidto 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 nopossibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the nightwas totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderingsof horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so shocking, thatthere were moments even when her heart revolted from it as impossible: when shethought it could not be. A woman married only six months ago; a man professinghimself devoted, even engagedto another; that other her near relation;the whole family, both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; allfriends, all intimate together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, toogross a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utterbarbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so. Hisunsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, Maria’sdecidedattachment, 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 itnot affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss Crawford, herself,Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such ground. She confinedherself, or tried to confine herself, to the simple, indubitable family miserywhich must envelop all, if it were indeed a matter of certified guilt andpublic exposure. The mother’s sufferings, the father’s; there shepaused. Julia’s, Tom’s, Edmund’s; there a yet longer pause.They were the two on whom it would fall most horribly. Sir Thomas’sparental solicitude and high sense of honour and decorum, Edmund’supright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine strength of feeling, madeher think it scarcely possible for them to support life and reason under suchdisgrace; and it appeared to her that, as far as this world alone wasconcerned, the greatest blessing to every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworthwould be instant annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two postscame in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was no secondletter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was no intelligencefrom Mansfield, though it was now full time for her to hear again from heraunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope tosoothe 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 thethird day did bring the sickening knock, and a letter was again put into herhands. It bore the London postmark, and came from Edmund.

“Dear Fanny,—You know our present wretchedness. May God support youunder 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 lastblow—Julia’s elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. Sheleft London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would havebeen felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy aggravation. Myfather is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is still able to think andact; and I write, by his desire, to propose your returning home. He is anxiousto get you there for my mother’s sake. I shall be at Portsmouth themorning after you receive this, and hope to find you ready to set off forMansfield. My father wishes you to invite Susan to go with you for a fewmonths. Settle it as you like; say what is proper; I am sure you will feel suchan 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. Thereis no end of the evil let loose upon us. You will see me early by themail.—Yours, etc.”

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one as thisletter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow! She was, she feltshe was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely happy, while so many weremiserable. The evil which brought such good to her! She dreaded lest she shouldlearn to be insensible of it. To be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent foras a comfort, and with leave to take Susan, was altogether such a combinationof blessings as set her heart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distanceevery pain, and make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even ofthose whose distress she thought of most. Julia’s elopement could affecther comparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could notoccupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call herself tothink of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it was escapingher, in the midst of all the agitating pressing joyful cares attending thissummons to herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, forrelieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy, and heroccupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even the horriblestory of Mrs. Rushworth (now fixed to the last point of certainty), couldaffect her as it had done before. She had not time to be miserable. Withintwenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her father and mother must bespoken to, Susan prepared, everything got ready. Business followed business;the day was hardly long enough. The happiness she was imparting, too, happinessvery little alloyed by the black communication which must briefly precedeit—the joyful consent of her father and mother to Susan’s goingwith her—the general satisfaction with which the going of both seemedregarded, and the ecstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support herspirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price talkedof her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to holdSusan’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 inthe first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally of those who hadsinned, or of those who were sorrowing—if she could help rejoicing frombeginning to end, it was as much as ought to be expected from human virtue atfourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good officesof Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished, and the girls wereready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep to prepare them for theirjourney was impossible. The cousin who was travelling towards them could hardlyhave less than visited their agitated spirits—one all happiness, theother all varying and indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his entrancefrom above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing him, with theknowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all her own firstfeelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to sink as she enteredthe parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly; and she found herself pressedto his heart with only these words, just articulate, “My Fanny, my onlysister; my only comfort now!” She could say nothing; nor for some minutescould he say more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his voicestill faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and the resolutionof avoiding any farther allusion. “Have you breakfasted? When shall yoube ready? Does Susan go?” were questions following each other rapidly.His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When Mansfield wasconsidered, time was precious; and the state of his own mind made him findrelief only in motion. It was settled that he should order the carriage to thedoor in half an hour. Fanny answered for their having breakfasted and beingquite ready in half an hour. He had already ate, and declined staying for theirmeal. He would walk round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He wasgone again; glad to get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he wasdetermined 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 intime to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a witness—but that hesaw nothing—of the tranquil manner in which the daughters were partedwith, 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 thecarriage drove from the door. Fanny’s last meal in her father’shouse was in character with her first: she was dismissed from it as hospitablyas she had been welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers ofPortsmouth, and how Susan’s face wore its broadest smiles, may be easilyconceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet, those smileswere unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund’s deep sighs oftenreached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened in spiteof 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 hiseye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the firstday’s journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the subjectsthat were weighing him down. The next morning produced a little more. Justbefore their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was stationed at a window, ineager observation of the departure of a large family from the inn, the othertwo were standing by the fire; and Edmund, particularly struck by thealteration in Fanny’s looks, and from his ignorance of the daily evils ofher father’s house, attributing an undue share of the change, attributingallto the recent event, took her hand, and said in a low, but veryexpressive tone, “No wonder—you must feel it—you must suffer.How a man who had once loved, could desert you! But yours—yourregard 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, andas 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 ahumiliation; 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 pointof being called into action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of oldvulgarisms and new gentilities, were before her; and she was meditating muchupon silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere awaketo the difference of the country since February; but when they entered the Parkher perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort. It was threemonths, full three months, since her quitting it, and the change was fromwinter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations of thefreshest green; and the trees, though not fully clothed, were in thatdelightful state when farther beauty is known to be at hand, and when, whilemuch is actually given to the sight, more yet remains for the imagination. Herenjoyment, however, was for herself alone. Edmund could not share it. Shelooked at him, but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, andwith eyes closed, as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lovelyscenes 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 amelancholy aspect.

By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such impatience asshe had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the solemn-lookingservants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room to meet her; came withno indolent step; and falling on her neck, said, “Dear Fanny! now I shallbe comfortable.”

CHAPTER XLVII

It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves mostmiserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria, was really thegreatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the dearest of all; the matchhad been her own contriving, as she had been wont with such pride of heart tofeel and say, and this conclusion of it almost overpowered her.

She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to everything thatpassed. The being left with her sister and nephew, and all the house under hercare, had been an advantage entirely thrown away; she had been unable to director dictate, or even fancy herself useful. When really touched by affliction,her active powers had been all benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom hadreceived from her the smallest support or attempt at support. She had done nomore 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 establishedher superiority in wretchedness. Her companions were relieved, but there was nogood for her. Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother as Fanny toher aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of having comfort from either, was but themore 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 fewrepulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder, and an indigentniece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt, Susan was received withquiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her much time, or many words, butshe felt her, as Fanny’s sister, to have a claim at Mansfield, and wasready to kiss and like her; and Susan was more than satisfied, for she cameperfectly aware that nothing but ill-humour was to be expected from auntNorris; and was so provided with happiness, so strong in that best ofblessings, an escape from many certain evils, that she could have stood againsta 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 andgrounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so doing, while thosewho might otherwise have attended to her were shut up, or wholly occupied eachwith the person quite dependent on them, at this time, for everything likecomfort; Edmund trying to bury his own feelings in exertions for the relief ofhis brother’s, and Fanny devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to everyformer office with more than former zeal, and thinking she could never doenough for one who seemed so much to want her.

To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all LadyBertram’s consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear thevoice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could be done forher. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The case admitted of nocomfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, shethought justly on all important points; and she saw, therefore, in all itsenormity, what had happened, and neither endeavoured herself, nor requiredFanny to advise her, to think little of guilt and infamy.

Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time, Fannyfound it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other subjects, and revivesome interest in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady Bertram wasfixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as comprehending theloss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped off.

Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her auntwas no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters to and fromSir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could reasonably combine,she was soon able to understand quite as much as she wished of thecircumstances attending the story.

Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with a familywhom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively, agreeable manners,and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to theirhouse Mr.Crawford had constant access at all times. His having been in the sameneighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth had been gone at this time toBath, to pass a few days with his mother, and bring her back to town, and Mariawas with these friends without any restraint, without even Julia; for Julia hadremoved from Wimpole Street two or three weeks before, on a visit to somerelations of Sir Thomas; a removal which her father and mother were nowdisposed to attribute to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates’s account.Very soon after the Rushworths’ return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas hadreceived a letter from an old and most particular friend in London, who hearingand witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend SirThomas’s coming to London himself, and using his influence with hisdaughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her tounpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.

Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating itscontents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by another, sentexpress from the same friend, to break to him the almost desperate situation inwhich affairs then stood with the young people. Mrs. Rushworth had left herhusband’s house: Mr. Rushworth had been in great anger and distress tohim(Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr. Harding feared there had beenatleastvery flagrant indiscretion. The maidservant of Mrs.Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He was doing all in his power toquiet everything, with the hope of Mrs. Rushworth’s return, but was somuch counteracted in Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr. Rushworth’smother, that the worst consequences might be apprehended.

This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the family. SirThomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others had been left in astate of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed the receipt of the nextletters from London. Everything was by that time public beyond a hope. Theservant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had exposure in her power, and supportedby her mistress, was not to be silenced. The two ladies, even in the short timethey had been together, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder againsther daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personaldisrespect with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility for herson.

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, bythe person who could get hold of and shut him up, the case would still havebeen hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear again, and there was everyreason to conclude her to be concealed somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who hadquitted his uncle’s house, as for a journey, on the very day of herabsenting herself.

Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope ofdiscovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost on theside of character.

Hispresent state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but oneof his children who was not at this time a source of misery to him. Tom’scomplaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his sister’sconduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even Lady Bertram hadbeen struck by the difference, and all her alarms were regularly sent off toher husband; and Julia’s elopement, the additional blow which had met himon 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 howmuch he deplored it. Under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcomealliance; but to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen forits completion, placed Julia’s feelings in a most unfavourable light, andseverely aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done inthe worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as morepardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but regard the step shehad taken as opening the worst probabilities of a conclusion hereafter like hersister’s. Such was his opinion of the set into which she had thrownherself.

Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund. Everyother child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against herself shetrusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris, would now be done away.Sheshould be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully acquitted herconduct in refusing him; but this, though most material to herself, would bepoor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle’s displeasure was terrible toher; but what could her justification or her gratitude and attachment do forhim? His stay must be on Edmund alone.

She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no presentpain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the others excited; butSir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply involved in the offenceof his sister and friend; cut off by it, as he must be, from the woman whom hehad been pursuing with undoubted attachment and strong probability of success;and who, in everything but this despicable brother, would have been so eligiblea 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 conjecturedhis feelings; and, having reason to think that one interview with Miss Crawfordhad taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased distress, had been asanxious on that account as on others to get him out of town, and had engagedhim in taking Fanny home to her aunt, with a view to his relief and benefit, noless 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 beenprivy to her conversation with his son, he would not have wished her to belongto him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty.

That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit of adoubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her ownconviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted to be assuredof it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which had sometimes beentoo much for her before, it would be most consoling; but thatshe foundwas not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He probably avoided being alonewith her. What was to be inferred? That his judgment submitted to all his ownpeculiar and bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenlyfelt to be a subject of the slightest communication. This must be his state. Heyielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, longwould it be ere Miss Crawford’s name passed his lips again, or she couldhope for a renewal of such confidential intercourse as had been.

It waslong. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not tillSunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting withher on Sunday evening—a wet Sunday evening—the very time of allothers when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and everythingtold; no one else in the room, except his mother, who, after hearing anaffecting 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, heshould be very brief, and certainly never tax her kindness in the same wayagain; she need not fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibitedentirely: he entered upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensationsof the first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he wasquite convinced.

How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and whatdelight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully her owneyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The opening wasalarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to see her. He hadreceived a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call; and regarding it aswhat was meant to be the last, last interview of friendship, and investing herwith all the feelings of shame and wretchedness which Crawford’s sisterought 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 thatit 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—evenan agitated air; but before he had been able to speak one intelligiblesentence, she had introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shockedhim. “‘I heard you were in town,’ said she; ‘I wantedto see you. Let us talk over this sad business. What can equal the folly of ourtwo relations?’ I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. Shefelt reproved. Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice shethen added, ‘I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister’sexpense.’ So she began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardlyfit to be repeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwellupon them if I could. Their substance was great anger at the follyofeach. She reprobated her brother’s folly in being drawn on by a womanwhom he had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; butstill more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation, plunginginto such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved by a man who hadlong ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I must have felt. To hear thewoman 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, nomodest loathings? This is what the world does. For where, Fanny, shall we finda 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 onlyas folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of commondiscretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the whole time of herbeing at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of a servant; it was thedetection, in short—oh, Fanny! it was the detection, not the offence,which she reprobated. It was the imprudence which had brought things toextremity, and obliged her brother to give up every dearer plan in order to flywith her.”

He stopt. “And what,” said Fanny (believing herself required tospeak), “what could you say?”

“Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned. She wenton, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you, regretting, aswell she might, the loss of such a—. There she spoke very rationally. Butshe 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; shewould have made him happy for ever.’ My dearest Fanny, I am giving you, Ihope, more pleasure than pain by this retrospect of what might havebeen—but what never can be now. You do not wish me to be silent? If youdo, 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 itseems to have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart whichknew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and warmaffection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in the midst ofit 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, theymight now have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would have been toohappy and too busy to want any other object. He would have taken no pains to beon terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would have all ended in a regularstanding flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.’Could you have believed it possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes areopened.”

“Cruel!” said Fanny, “quite cruel. At such a moment to giveway to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty.”

“Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruelnature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil liesyet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being suchfeelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to treat thesubject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used to hear othersspeak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers are not faults oftemper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary pain to any one, and thoughI may deceive myself, I cannot but think that for me, for my feelings, shewould—. Hers are faults of principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacy and acorrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is best for me, since it leaves me solittle to regret. Not so, however. Gladly would I submit to all the increasedpain of losing her, rather than have to think of her as I do. I told herso.”

“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 nowto 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 onceas he continued. “‘We must persuade Henry to marry her,’ saidshe; ‘and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut himself outfor ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must give up. I do notthink that even hecould now hope to succeed with one of her stamp, andtherefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty. My influence, which isnot small shall all go that way; and when once married, and properly supportedby her own family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover herfooting in society to a certain degree. In some circles, we know, she wouldnever be admitted, but with good dinners, and large parties, there will alwaysbe those who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, moreliberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise is, thatyour 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 ofhis, she is induced to leave Henry’s protection, there will be much lesschance of his marrying her than if she remain with him. I know how he is likelyto be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and it mayall end well; but if he get his daughter away, it will be destroying the chiefhold.’”

After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching him withsilent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the subject had beenentered on at all. It was long before he could speak again. At last,“Now, Fanny,” said he, “I shall soon have done. I have toldyou the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak, I repliedthat I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of mind into thathouse as I had done, that anything could occur to make me suffer more, but thatshe had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost every sentence. That though Ihad, in the course of our acquaintance, been often sensible of some differencein our opinions, on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered myimagination 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 herbrother and my sister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not tosay), but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it everyreproach but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they were tobe braved or overborne by a defiance of decency and impudence in wrong; andlast of all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance, a compromise, anacquiescence 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 thansought; all this together most grievously convinced me that I had neverunderstood her before, and that, as far as related to mind, it had been thecreature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt todwell on for many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less toregret 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, couldI have restored her to what she had appeared to me before, I would infinitelyprefer any increase of the pain of parting, for the sake of carrying with methe 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 haverepeated it to you. She was astonished, exceedingly astonished—more thanastonished. I saw her change countenance. She turned extremely red. I imaginedI saw a mixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wishof yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it. Shewould 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? Atthis rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; andwhen I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some greatsociety of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.’ She triedto speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear. Ionly said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hopedthat she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuableknowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of ourduty, to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone afew 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 hadpassed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; atleast it appeared so to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment toresist, and still walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regrettedthat I did not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end ofour acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I beendeceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for yourpatience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will havedone.”

And such was Fanny’s dependence on his words, that for five minutes shethought they haddone. Then, however, it all came on again, or somethingvery like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram’s rousing thoroughly upcould really close such a conversation. Till that happened, they continued totalk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had attached him, and how delightfulnature had made her, and how excellent she would have been, had she fallen intogood hands earlier. Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt more thanjustified in adding to his knowledge of her real character, by some hint ofwhat share his brother’s state of health might be supposed to have in herwish for a complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation.Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter tohave had her more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was not of astrength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe that Tom’sillness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this consoling thought,that considering the many counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainlybeen moreattached to him than could have been expected, and for hissake been more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly the same; and they werealso quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect, the indelibleimpression, which such a disappointment must make on his mind. Time wouldundoubtedly abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thingwhich he never could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever meetingwith any other woman who could—it was too impossible to be named but withindignation. 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 soonas I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault themselves, totolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.

My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing, musthave been happy in spite of everything. She must have been a happy creature inspite of all that she felt, or thought she felt, for the distress of thosearound her. She had sources of delight that must force their way. She wasreturned to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she was beloved; she was safe fromMr. Crawford; and when Sir Thomas came back she had every proof that could begiven in his then melancholy state of spirits, of his perfect approbation andincreased regard; and happy as all this must make her, she would still havebeen happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of MissCrawford.

It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was suffering fromdisappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and wishing for what couldnever be. She knew it was so, and was sorry; but it was with a sorrow sofounded on satisfaction, so tending to ease, and so much in harmony with everydearest sensation, that there are few who might not have been glad to exchangetheir greatest gaiety for it.

Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his ownconduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that he ought not tohave allowed the marriage; that his daughter’s sentiments had beensufficiently known to him to render him culpable in authorising it; that in sodoing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient, and been governed bymotives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These were reflections that requiredsome time to soften; but time will do almost everything; and though littlecomfort 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 itat first. She was humble, and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirousof being really received into the family, was disposed to look up to him and beguided. He was not very solid; but there was a hope of his becoming lesstrifling, 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 worthattending 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 learnedto think: two advantages that he had never known before; and the self-reproacharising from the deplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himselfaccessory by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made animpression on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want ofsense or good companions, was durable in its happy effects. He became what heought to be: useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not living merely forhimself.

Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place dependenceon such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his father’s ease byimprovement in the only point in which he had given him painbefore—improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and sittingunder trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well talked his mindinto submission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.

These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought theiralleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and in partreconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from the conviction ofhis own errors in the education of his daughters was never to be entirely doneaway.

Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young peoplemust be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had been alwaysexperiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and flattery of their aunthad been continually contrasted with his own severity. He saw how ill he hadjudged, in expecting to counteract what was wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reversein himself; clearly saw that he had but increased the evil by teaching them torepress their spirits in his presence so as to make their real dispositionunknown to him, and sending them for all their indulgences to a person who hadbeen able to attach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excessof her praise.

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually grew tofeel 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 awaymuch of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active principle, had beenwanting; that they had never been properly taught to govern their inclinationsand tempers by that sense of duty which can alone suffice. They had beeninstructed theoretically in their religion, but never required to bring it intodaily practice. To be distinguished for elegance and accomplishments, theauthorised 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 hadbeen directed to the understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of thenecessity of self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from anylips that could profit them.

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely comprehend tohave been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all the cost and care ofan anxious and expensive education, he had brought up his daughters withouttheir understanding their first duties, or his being acquainted with theircharacter and temper.

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were madeknown to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed on to leaveMr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued together till she wasobliged to be convinced that such hope was vain, and till the disappointmentand wretchedness arising from the conviction rendered her temper so bad, andher feelings for him so like hatred, as to make them for a while eachother’s punishment, and then induce a voluntary separation.

She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness inFanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him than that shehaddivided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mind in such asituation?

Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended a marriagecontracted under such circumstances as to make any better end the effect ofgood luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised him, and loved another; andhe had been very much aware that it was so. The indignities of stupidity, andthe disappointments of selfish passion, can excite little pity. His punishmentfollowed his conduct, as did a deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife.Hewas released from the engagement to be mortified and unhappy, tillsome other pretty girl could attract him into matrimony again, and he might setforward on a second, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of thestate: if duped, to be duped at least with good humour and good luck; while shemust withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and reproachwhich could allow no second spring of hope or character.

Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and momentousconsultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment with the demeritsof 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 Fannywas so much the greater, from considering herresidence there as themotive. She persisted in placing his scruples to heraccount, though SirThomas very solemnly assured her that, had there been no young woman inquestion, had there been no young person of either sex belonging to him, to beendangered by the society or hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he wouldnever have offered so great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expect it tonotice her. As a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be protected byhim, and secured in every comfort, and supported by every encouragement to doright, which their relative situations admitted; but farther than thathe could not go. Maria had destroyed her own character, and he would not, by avain attempt to restore what never could be restored, by affording his sanctionto vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be anywise accessory tointroducing such misery in another man’s family as he had known himself.

It ended in Mrs. Norris’s resolving to quit Mansfield and devote herselfto her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed for them inanother country, remote and private, where, shut up together with littlesociety, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment, it may bereasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual punishment.

Mrs. Norris’s removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary comfortof Sir Thomas’s life. His opinion of her had been sinking from the day ofhis return from Antigua: in every transaction together from that period, intheir daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had been regularly losingground in his esteem, and convincing him that either time had done her muchdisservice, or that he had considerably over-rated her sense, and wonderfullyborne with her manners before. He had felt her as an hourly evil, which was somuch the worse, as there seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; sheseemed 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 remembrancesbehind her, there might have been danger of his learning almost to approve theevil which produced such a good.

She was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able to attacheven those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushworth’s elopement, hertemper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her everywheretormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not even when she wasgone for ever.

That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to afavourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater to herhaving 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 alwaysused to think herself a little inferior to Maria. Her temper was naturally theeasiest of the two; her feelings, though quick, were more controllable, andeducation had not given her so very hurtful a degree of self-consequence.

She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford. After thefirst bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was over, she had beentolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him again; and when theacquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr. Rushworth’s house becameCrawford’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 tosecure herself from being again too much attracted. This had been her motive ingoing to her cousin’s. Mr. Yates’s convenience had had nothing todo with it. She had been allowing his attentions some time, but with verylittle idea of ever accepting him; and had not her sister’s conduct burstforth as it did, and her increased dread of her father and of home, on thatevent, imagining its certain consequence to herself would be greater severityand restraint, made her hastily resolve on avoiding such immediate horrors atall risks, it is probable that Mr. Yates would never have succeeded. She hadnot eloped with any worse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It had appearedto her the only thing to be done. Maria’s guilt had induced Julia’sfolly.

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example, indulgedin the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once it had, by anopening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of happiness. Could hehave been satisfied with the conquest of one amiable woman’s affections,could he have found sufficient exultation in overcoming the reluctance, inworking himself into the esteem and tenderness of Fanny Price, there would havebeen every probability of success and felicity for him. His affection hadalready done something. Her influence over him had already given him someinfluence over her. Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt thatmore would have been obtained, especially when that marriage had taken place,which would have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing herfirst inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he havepersevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward veryvoluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from Edmund’s marryingMary.

Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down toEveringham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been deciding hisown 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 ofimmediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to make any sacrifice toright: he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey, resolved that writing shouldanswer the purpose of it, or that its purpose was unimportant, and staid. Hesaw Mrs. Rushworth, was received by her with a coldness which ought to havebeen repulsive, and have established apparent indifference between them forever; but he was mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the womanwhose smiles had been so wholly at his command: he must exert himself to subdueso proud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny’s account; hemust get the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram again in hertreatment of himself.

In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had soonre-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry, of flirtation,which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the discretion which, thoughbeginning in anger, might have saved them both, he had put himself in the powerof feelings on her side more strong than he had supposed. She loved him; therewas no withdrawing attentions avowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his ownvanity, with as little excuse of love as possible, and without the smallestinconstancy of mind towards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from aknowledge of what was passing became his first object. Secrecy could not havebeen more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth’s credit than he felt it for hisown. 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 hewent off with her at last, because he could not help it, regretting Fanny evenat the moment, but regretting her infinitely more when all the bustle of theintrigue was over, and a very few months had taught him, by the force ofcontrast, to place a yet higher value on the sweetness of her temper, thepurity of her mind, and the excellence of her principles.

That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just measureattend hisshare of the offence is, we know, not one of the barrierswhich society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is less equal thancould be wished; but without presuming to look forward to a juster appointmenthereafter, we may fairly consider a man of sense, like Henry Crawford, to beproviding for himself no small portion of vexation and regret: vexation thatmust rise sometimes to self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having sorequited hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, mostestimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he hadrationally as well as passionately loved.

After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the continuanceof the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood would have been mostdistressing; but the absence of the latter, for some months purposelylengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity, or at least thepracticability, of a permanent removal. Dr. Grant, through an interest on whichhe had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to a stall in Westminster, which,as affording an occasion for leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence inLondon, and an increase of income to answer the expenses of the change, washighly acceptable to those who went and those who staid.

Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with some regretfrom the scenes and people she had been used to; but the same happiness ofdisposition must in any place, and any society, secure her a great deal toenjoy, and she had again a home to offer Mary; and Mary had had enough of herown friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love, and disappointment in the courseof the last half-year, to be in need of the true kindness of her sister’sheart, and the rational tranquillity of her ways. They lived together; and whenDr. Grant had brought on apoplexy and death, by three great institutionarydinners in one week, they still lived together; for Mary, though perfectlyresolved against ever attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long infinding among the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents, who were atthe command of her beauty, and her £20,000, any one who could satisfy thebetter taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose character and manners couldauthorise 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 andwish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed her in them.Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing to Fanny howimpossible it was that he should ever meet with such another woman, before itbegan to strike him whether a very different kind of woman might not do just aswell, 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 hadever been; and whether it might not be a possible, a hopeful undertaking topersuade her that her warm and sisterly regard for him would be foundationenough for wedded love.

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may be atliberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable passions, andthe transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as to time in differentpeople. I only entreat everybody to believe that exactly at the time when itwas quite natural that it should be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund didcease to care about Miss Crawford, and became as anxious to marry Fanny asFanny herself could desire.

With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard founded onthe most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and completed by everyrecommendation of growing worth, what could be more natural than the change?Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been doing ever since her being tenyears old, her mind in so great a degree formed by his care, and her comfortdepending on his kindness, an object to him of such close and peculiarinterest, dearer by all his own importance with her than any one else atMansfield, what was there now to add, but that he should learn to prefer softlight eyes to sparkling dark ones. And being always with her, and alwaystalking confidentially, and his feelings exactly in that favourable state whicha recent disappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very long inobtaining 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 progressslow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition of taste, no need ofdrawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity of temper. Her mind,disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no half-concealment, no self-deceptionon the present, no reliance on future improvement. Even in the midst of hislate infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny’s mental superiority. Whatmust be his sense of it now, therefore? She was of course only too good forhim; but as nobody minds having what is too good for them, he was very steadilyearnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not possible thatencouragement from her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as shewas, 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 periodto tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His happiness inknowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such a heart, must havebeen great enough to warrant any strength of language in which he could clotheit to her or to himself; it must have been a delightful happiness. But therewas happiness elsewhere which no description can reach. Let no one presume togive the feelings of a young woman on receiving the assurance of that affectionof which she has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.

Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind, nodrawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas’s wisheshad even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions, prizing moreand more the sterling good of principle and temper, and chiefly anxious to bindby the strongest securities all that remained to him of domestic felicity, hehad pondered with genuine satisfaction on the more than possibility of the twoyoung friends finding their natural consolation in each other for all that hadoccurred of disappointment to either; and the joyful consent which metEdmund’s application, the high sense of having realised a greatacquisition in the promise of Fanny for a daughter, formed just such a contrastwith his early opinion on the subject when the poor little girl’s cominghad been first agitated, as time is for ever producing between the plans anddecisions of mortals, for their own instruction, and their neighbours’entertainment.

Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness had beenrearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality had a rich repayment, andthe general goodness of his intentions by her deserved it. He might have madeher childhood happier; but it had been an error of judgment only which hadgiven him the appearance of harshness, and deprived him of her early love; andnow, 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 fromit.

Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be partedwith willingly by her. No happiness of son or niece could make her wishthe marriage. But it was possible to part with her, because Susan remained tosupply her place. Susan became the stationary niece, delighted to be so; andequally well adapted for it by a readiness of mind, and an inclination forusefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness of temper, and strong feelings ofgratitude. Susan could never be spared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as anauxiliary, and last as her substitute, she was established at Mansfield, withevery appearance of equal permanency. Her more fearless disposition and happiernerves made everything easy to her there. With quickness in understanding thetempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to restrain anyconsequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all; and afterFanny’s removal succeeded so naturally to her influence over the hourlycomfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the most beloved of thetwo. In herusefulness, in Fanny’s excellence, in William’scontinued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general well-doing andsuccess of the other members of the family, all assisting to advance eachother, 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, andacknowledge the advantages of early hardship and discipline, and theconsciousness of being born to struggle and endure.

With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and friends, thehappiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as earthly happiness canbe. Equally formed for domestic life, and attached to country pleasures, theirhome was the home of affection and comfort; and to complete the picture ofgood, the acquisition of Mansfield living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurredjust after they had been married long enough to begin to want an increase ofincome, and feel their distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.

On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there, which, undereach of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able to approach but withsome 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 andpatronage of Mansfield Park had long been.

FINIS.

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